Shades of Grey
by Regina lacrimarum
Summary: Hermione goes back in time to find information to help the light win the war. A mishap leaves her stranded in 1943. Trying to find a way back, she strikes up a kind of sort of friendship with one Tom Riddle. Fairly dark. HBP compliant, but AU for DH. Rating for adult themes rather than smut.
1. The Letter

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. This story is written for fun, not profit. The closest I've ever come to being J. K. Rowling was visiting the café where she used to write.

Chapter 1

_In which Hermione writes a letter._

The flat was nothing special, a spartan bedroom/bathroom combination above a family-run Muggle grocery in London. The weak light coming through the tiny, dirty window, on the sill of which was perched a large owl, was the sole thing illuminating a bed with a threadbare blanket, a large wooden chest with no visible lock, a desk with a bit of cardboard put under one of its legs to keep it steady (a book would have been far more effective, but to the room's occupant, such usage of a text would be sacrilegious), and a chair. On this chair there sat a girl, wearing crimson robes to block out the autumn chill, legs crossed in a manner conveying elegance despite the girl's ripped, filthy jeans, visible only because her robes were too short for her, and sneakers. One leg jiggled reflexively, and the other was tapping on the floor as the girl wrote the close of a letter.

_Dear Ron, Harry, et al.,_

_I am going to be gone by the time you receive this, so you needn't worry about them finding _me_ by tracking the owl. And Gwen is smart. She'll find you unnoticed. _

_In third year, I used a time turner with great regularity. When giving me this, McGonagall told me that it was incapable of taking the wearer back any more than two weeks. Besides, that was confiscated. The time-turners at the ministry can take the bearer back over three hundred years. I don't need to go anywhere near that far back, but I need to go back further than two weeks. _

_Before he died, Dumbledore told me about the time-turners at the ministry, their rough location, and the wards surrounding them. He told me to make use of the information when the time was right. As you may have realised by this point, I stole one last year when we happened on the rest in the Department of Mysteries' Time Room and smashed them. I thought that the time was right. Having acquired it, I thought better of using it immediately._

_I think that the right time to use the time-turner is now. We always suspected that Riddle had hidden the last horcrux somewhere in Hogwarts. I was flipping through the latest edition of __Hogwarts: A History_ (the second volume of this tome was lying beside her, open to page 1013)_, which includes thirty pages detailing various notable inscriptions in the castle. It mentions one that was found on a stone snake near the Slytherin common room. The snake was smashed in May 1971 by a group of sixth year boys (such a surprise). Before that time, no one had noticed that there were words on the serpent's belly. Of course, most of the writing is now illegible, having been shattered into thousands of tiny fragments, and in any case the snake has long since been lost. What could be read says, "Seek… …soul… …Lord V…" __Hogwarts: A History__ put forth the theory that this was a tribute to the Dark Lord, put there by one of his early followers. Knowing what we now know, however, it seems more likely that one of his enemies who knew about his horcruxes, perhaps Dumbledore, put it there in case of a situation like one we have now. Or Voldemort himself could have put it there, in case he fell and his followers needed to use the horcrux to revive him._

_I believe that if I were set the time-turner for 27.5 years, to March 1971 (the most recent time possible if I were going to see the statue before it's broken), I could find the snake and read the writing there. It seems like a fairly simple task, but with any time travel there is risk, and especially when one goes back any more than a year or so. I cannot imagine that anything I do will affect the past, since I plan to be there for only a little while, and I will avoid being seen. _

_I should be safe in a different location in our own time by the time you get this owl. But if you do not hear from me soon, you understand why. Do not send anyone to find me. It would only endanger you, since if something happens, there is nothing you can do._

_I will send an owl when I am safe and have the information we are looking for._

_Love to all,_

_Hermione_

It was reckless, she knew, sending them a letter in times like these. But the barn owl Gwen was nothing to attract special attention, and she had an uncanny ability to evade detection as she flew. Hermione tied the letter to the owl's leg and rummaged in her pocket for a treat.

"There you go. It's stale, but I can't go out for more. Take this to Harry, and he'll have something better for you."

The owl hooted and flapped her wings, ready to fly. Hermione reached around her and opened the window. The owl winged her way out of sight.

Hermione closed the window and turned back into the room, rubbing her eyes. She had strained her eyes writing in the gloom, but it would be suicidal to create a magical light. The puppet government of magical Britain, under Voldemort's control, could track her magical signature with ease, should they choose. And Hermione had no doubt that they were monitoring the web of magic closely, looking for a disturbance to tell them her location.

_The brightest witch of her age_ (not vanity, just fact)_, that careless with her life and, by extension, her friends'? They wish._ Then again, her current plan was probably not the brightest ever formed. But it could work. It _had_ to work. It might be their last hope.

Wasn't that a cheery thought? _The fate of the wizarding world has been placed on the shoulders of a widely-despised Muggle-born who can't even perform a simple spell using wandless magic, despite many attempts._

_Hell, even Ron can do it. Why can't I? He _never_ manages magic before I do. Until now. _ Despite the war, Hermione was still Hermione, and she had to drag her thoughts away from their neurotic tangent, back to the issue at hand.

In her letter, Hermione had downplayed the danger. There was a reason her time-turner only went back two weeks. The further back a wizard went, the more danger there was. The famous sorceress Saphilia Bibbit had tried to go back a mere five years, and she ended up a gibbering wreck. Time travel messes with one's mind.

_Still, it should be easy. _And it was, in theory. Get to Hogwarts, find the snake, copy the inscription, and go. Even if someone saw her, she'd be wearing robes that could very well conceal a uniform. The difference in style wouldn't be a problem. Robe fashions hadn't changed much, and no one would be getting a close look at the clothes underneath. She could transfigure Hogwarts-appropriate clothes for herself if she needed to. Like all transfigured objects (especially so with something that was used so often as to wear out the magic, like cloth), they would eventually return to their original state, but by that time she would be long gone.

Time to go. It wasn't likely that anyone had seen the owl, but if anyone had, government officials would be here in seconds. And Hermione wasn't entirely sure that they still needed her alive. Even if they did, nearly dead is still alive, and they certainly didn't need her to be in good condition.

She put Hogwarts: A History in her trunk, shrunk the whole thing, and put it in her pocket. Now, in the last few seconds before she left, could she use magic. What she was doing was technically illegal under any circumstances, since she didn't have a license for this next bit, but by the time anyone could get to her to tell her so, she'd be in 1971.

Hermione shut her eyes and wished for Hogsmeade. She shook off the absurd feeling that she should be wearing glittery shoes and clicking her heels together.

She heard a roaring in her ears and the world went black for a split second. Then she was standing in front of the Hog's Head. A girl who looked like a second-year gave her a quick look from under a Hufflepuff scarf, but no one else paid her any attention. Hogwarts students were milling all about.

Better than she had hoped; it was a Hogsmeade weekend. The gates to the castle would be open. She hurried through the streets. _Soon now, I will have company_… On cue, she heard a commotion behind her, but she didn't bother looking back. She knew what she would see if she did: a group of black-cloaked figures pushing their way impatiently through the throng. She just had to hope the crowds held them back for long enough.

She came in view of the gates and, now unhindered by masses of shoppers, broke into a run, limping slightly from her recent injury. No healing spell would fix that; it would have to go away by itself if it went away at all. Such is the way of dark magic.

She passed through the iron gates, brushing past a cluster of Slytherins who were on their way down to the village. They turned and gave her dirty looks, but she barely noticed.

Hermione pulled a long, silver chain from under her robes. _The last one in existence._ She grasped at the hourglass on the end and turned it, but there was no reaction. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the familiar, silvery-blond head of Lucius Malfoy was drawing ever nearer. In a moment he would be able to reach out and grab her. She couldn't let that happen; taking a Death Eater back with her was the last thing she wanted.

_Oh, hello, Lucius. Nice of you to join me twenty-eight years in the past. What am I doing? Trying to find the statue that could bring your master down forever. You don't want me to do that? Oh, dear, that does sound like a problem. Let's sit down and talk about our conflict of interest. In a civilised manner, of course._ The ironic thing was, were she a pureblood, that might even be a possibility. Malfoy cared more about blood purity than he did about following Voldemort's instructions exactly, and the old wizarding families were dying out. He wouldn't kill a pureblood unless he had to.

_But I'm a mudblood, so I'd better get out of here._ She gave the time-turner another desperate wrench, and for a heart-stopping moment the world stood still around her. Then she was being drawn backwards, leaving Malfoy, who had lunged for her, lying in the dirt of the path. Her vision blurred and colors whirled past her, dizzying her. She fought the urge to vomit, although it might be interesting to find out what happened if she did.

The time-turner also twisted space a little bit during its use, if one desired. In third year, Hermione had been able to move from one room to another within Hogwarts grounds. As long as she was within the gates, she should be able to appear in the castle. Hermione was headed for the entrance hall, or she hoped she was.

She closed her eyes against the nausea, opening them just in time to see that she was falling towards a stone floor. _Not good. _She extended her hand to catch herself, but it folded under her. Then her head connected to the floor with a crunch, and she lost consciousness.

A/N: I'll put this up a few chapters at a time, depending on how much I get done in what expanse of time, and also depending on readers' reactions. So please review, even if you hated it.


	2. The Problem

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it, J. K. R. does. This story is just a tribute of sorts.

Chapter 2

_In which Hermione realises that she has a problem._

Hermione refused to believe that she was awake. _If I were awake_, she reasoned, _there would be voices around me, wondering aloud who I was and whence I came, as well as conveniently giving me a general idea where I was. My surroundings are eerily silent. Ergo, I am still dreaming. Either that, or the fall killed me._ Then the rational side of her kicked in. _Don't be an idiot. You've been reading too many novels. It smells too bad for you to be dead. _

Like most magical folk, Hermione was agnostic. It's hard to believe in miracles when walking on water and turning water into wine can be so easily accomplished with the wave of a wand. Still, she had some preconceptions about life after death—her mother was Catholic—and she doubted it would smell like disinfectant. Opening her eyes, Hermione received evidence in support of her theory of her continued life. _There's no way the afterlife looks like the infirmary at Hogwarts. And those curtains are not modern. Which means… I got to when I was going. Yay!_

Then the implications of her location hit her. _I can't stay here! They'll want to know how I got here and why I came. I can't tell them anything. But if I leave, they'll search for me. I have to find the statue now, and leave. _

With this simple plan in mind, Hermione forced herself into a sitting position. She felt an initial stab of pain in her head, and then it throbbed continually, but she tested her hand, and it seemed to be fine. She checked and found that she was still wearing her clothes, minus her cloak, rather than a flimsy hospital gown. Then she put her hand to her neck.

Her heart sank. She couldn't feel the delicate links of her time-turner's chain. Her bedside table was also bare. _Shit. Whoever found me must have taken it. What now? _She sat despondently for fifteen minutes, trying to decide whether she should leave the infirmary and wander around in search of Dumbledore. _He's headmaster, by now._

Hermione had just made up her mind to stand up when a plump, young woman bustled in wearing an apron. She had dark hair and twinkling eyes. She tsked at Hermione. "Lie back down, love. You're to stay here until the headmaster is free."

Hermione didn't want to lie down again, but she slumped down until only her head was still up, resting against the pillow. "Why do I have to stay still? Am I hurt?"

The woman shook her head. "But Headmaster Dippet will want to ask you questions."

Hermione turned her gaze from the door to look at the woman. "Headmaster who?"

"Dippet."

"I'm sorry… I think I'm just a little bit confused. I thought Albus Dumbledore was headmaster here."

"Hopefully not for another twenty years. The headmaster still has at least that long in him, I think." Hermione looked back at the doorway. A minute ago, it had been empty. Now Dumbledore stood there, watching her over his spectacles. Seeing him hit her hard. He looked so young—his hair was more brown than grey, and his beard was shorter—but it was still Dumbledore.

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat. "Professor."

He smiled politely at her. "Madame Greenley, if you would." The nurse hurried into her office. Hermione watched the door shut and turned back to Dumbledore.

He looked kindly back.

"Sir, what month is it, in what year, if you don't mind my asking?"

"September, 1944." Hermione felt as though she had been punched in the gut. She had worried about getting away to look for the snake, but that seemed to be the least of her problems.

_ 1999 – 1944 = 55 years. 27.5 years x 2 = 55 years)._ She had set the time turner for March 1971, 27.5 years ago, as close as she could get to the accident, and twisted the time-turner twice. But the first time, it hadn't done anything. _Had it?_ _If it was just taking a second to react, and I turned it again…_ With a wave of relief, she realised that it didn't matter. She could just turn it forward once, and she'd be where she needed to be.

Dumbledore waited patiently while she thought about this. "Sir, when I came here, I was wearing a necklace. Do you know what happened to that?"

Dumbledore's calm smile disappeared and he suddenly looked very grave. "I have it here, Miss…?"

She let him trail off.

"Unfortunately, when you fell (from a hole about twenty feet up, I am told), it broke." He drew out the silver chain. The frame of the hourglass was still there, but the glass was gone. Hermione's heart stopped and she felt her face crumple in shock. "I am sorry." His sympathetic tone told her he knew exactly why the loss of a mere trinket caused her such horror. She felt utterly helpless. Dumbledore stopped to let her take a deep breath.

"Now, I must ask that you tell me who you are. I will respect your privacy as best I can, but I have to know a little to help you. If you don't talk to me, Dippet will take the task of questioning you upon himself. The headmaster is a good man, but he lacks discretion."

She winced. Harry had described Dippet to her as a fool, and she didn't relish the thought of telling him her story.

"I can't say a lot, sir. That could complicate things. I am Hermione Jean Granger, I am from the far future, and I went back further than I meant to."

"And now you can't leave."

Hermione felt tears' threatening to well up in her eyes, but pushed them back. "And now I can't leave."

"Since you seemed unsurprised to find yourself in Hogwarts, I assume that you arrived where you were intending, just not when." She nodded.

"It seems to me that you have three options. One is that you get a job, start a life, and wait until your future comes." He paused, seeing the look on Hermione's face. "Perhaps not. You could also leave Britain, go to mainland Europe, and try to find a wyrm to take you back."

"Sorry, sir?"

"Kin to a dragon, but much smarter. They are very rare, but if one brings them enough gold or performs a quest for one of them, they are very generous with their considerable magic. They would not require any object to send you back to your time.

"Or, you could stay here temporarily while we search for a way back."

"Would that be allowed?"

"Only if you acted as a student."

_That's easy. But what if I don't find a way back? Shut up! I will! But what if I don't?_ Hermione tuned out her pessimistic side and smiled at Dumbledore. "That would be wonderful, sir."

"You seem familiar with the school. Am I correct in assuming that you attended Hogwarts in the future?"

Hermione blinked at the strangeness of using past tense in referring to the future. "You are."

"What year would you be attending, Miss Granger?"

"I was in sixth year the year before last, but I never attended seventh year."

"Very well. We will place you in seventh year, assuming Headmaster Dippet agrees. We should have time to place a visit to the Sorting Hat before dinner."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think that will be necessary. You see, I will just be placed in Gryffindor."

"I'm sure you will. The sorting hat is just a formality, of course.

"But before we proceed to the headmaster's office, I would like to know your purpose in coming here."

Hermione sighed. "I was supposed to find something that has been destroyed by my time."

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up, and his face darkened disapprovingly. "And bring it back with you? Are you sure that's the wisest course of action, Miss Granger?"

She shook her head. "I wasn't going to _take_ it. I just needed to look at it for a moment. Then I was going to go back."

"And why can you not look at it just as well now as in whatever time you expected to arrive?"

"I'm not sure that what I'm looking for exists yet." _If it was Riddle who put the writing there, he probably didn't do so until after his graduation. I don't remember the exact date of that. And if it was an enemy of his, it was probably not done until after Riddle started publicly calling himself Voldemort._

"I see. Well, for the moment, there is little we can do about that. You might go to where the object _will_ be, and see if it is there already."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, let us go to the headmaster's office."

Hermione rose and then stopped. "Madame Greenley—"

"Will understand that you are safe with me."

And off they went. It had to be class time, for the halls were deserted. Dumbledore went into Dippet's office alone, enjoining Hermione to wait outside. He came out a few minutes later and beckoned her to join him.

The headmaster's office in 1944 looked nothing like it would under Dumbledore. Dumbledore's office had been filled with strange gadgets and squishy furniture. Dippet's office was almost bare, but what little furniture there was clearly very expensive. Dumbledore gestured for Hermione to take the chair opposite the headmaster's desk. She sat down gingerly.

Dumbledore went over to the other side off the room and picked the Sorting Hat from a shelf near the ceiling. Hermione would have had to use a stepladder, and she wasn't short, but Dumbledore reached it easily. He walked back over to her and held it out.

She took it and gingerly placed it on her head. _Can we make this quick? We both know I'm a Gryffindor._

**We don't both know anything of the sort**, the hat responded waspishly. **Now, quiet, girl, and let me think.** The hat sat silently for a moment, hmming and hawing. Finally, it seemed to have come to a decision. **You _were_ Gryffindor, once. But now… Slytherin, I think.**

_No!_ Hermione was horrified.

**No?**

_My friend said that you put him in Gryffindor instead of Slytherin, because he asked. Now I'm asking. Please. I'm not Slytherin material._

**If I put your friend in Gryffindor, it was because I thought he would do well there. You are a different story.**

_I fit Gryffindor better than I do Slytherin!_

**Slytherin or Hufflepuff, final offer.** In other circumstances, Hermione would have found it amusing that the hat saw this as bargaining, since it was _her_ life. But she was preoccupied.

When Hermione had come to Hogwarts, she had known very little about the houses, but she had asked for Ravenclaw, knowing the house's reputation for intellectualism. The hat had refused. _Why am I the only one to whom the hat won't listen?_

The more she thought about it, the better Slytherin sounded. _I don't think I could stand a whole year with the Hufflepuffs. _Not that they weren't nice people, in general. It was just that, well, they weren't famous for their wit.

_Slytherins might be evil incarnate, but if I spend time with them, not only will I gain important insight into how they think, insight which could help if I ever get back to my time, and not only will I have ample opportunity to try and find the snake, if it exists yet, but I will also always have someone intelligent with whom to converse, at least unless they miraculously discover I'm a muggle-born, and how likely is that? All Hufflepuff has to offer is the possibility of forming an acquaintance that will fade from their minds as soon as I leave._ Hermione sighed. _Slytherin it is._

The hat shouted her house triumphantly.

"Very good, very good," said Dippet. "Fine house, Slytherin. But there is no room in the girls' dormitory for a transfer student. She will have to stay with Hufflepuff.

_No_, Hermione wanted to scream! _The whole point of agreeing to be in Slytherin was that I wouldn't have to spend time with Hufflepuffs._

"If I may, headmaster, I will propose an alternate solution. It seems to me that Miss Grey should be given as much opportunity as possible to interact with her own house. That would not be easy if she were sharing a common room with those of a different house." _What happened to interhouse unity?_ "I suggest that she be allowed to sleep in the room officially occupied by the Head Girl, who sleeps with her friends, in Gryffindor tower. The Head Boy is also a Slytherin, so they would be likely to have a fair amount in common."

Dippet shook his head. "Bad business, giving a common student the Head Girl's room. Some people might see it as favoritism."

Dumbledore spread his hands. "But Miss Martineaux will not object, and if I, the Head of Gryffindor, approve of the room's being given to a Slytherin, I predict that the protestations will be few, if any."

Dippet frowned and waved them out of the room.

Hermione followed Dumbledore down the corridor a ways before he spoke. "Miss Granger, are you familiar with the Heads' dormitory?" Hermione had never had any reason to go there before, and told him so. On the way, he told her that she was to go by a false name, and if anyone asked her where she had previously gone to school, she had been privately tutored up until this point. _Well, at least after that, it won't be hard to convince people that I'm a pureblood. Privately tutored? Honestly._

He halted in front of a floor-to-ceiling portrait of a life-size, classically beautiful young woman in a long, white dress. She was standing in the shadows of a cave, beside a silvery river, picking at a pomegranate and didn't notice them.

"Ah, Proserpine. I trust you are well." The girl looked up at him disinterestedly. "This is Hermione Grey." Proserpine nodded at her. "Now, Miss Grey, I would like you to step into the painting."

Hermione just stared at him. "Sorry?"

"Step into the painting, Miss Grey." He gave her a comforting smile. "I realise that is a somewhat unorthodox method of entry, even for Hogwarts, but it is quite safe. Tell the boat keeper that Pluto sent you."

Hermione hesitated a second longer, before tentatively stepping into the picture. _Any second now, I'm going to collide with the wall, and my head's going to start hurting again._ But the smack of her forehead against the canvas over the stone never came. She opened her eyes and found that she was staring into the dark water. She looked around for the boatman and found him to her left. She was heading towards him when a voice called her name, or rather, Hermione Grey's name. "Come to my office, behind the Transfiguration classroom, at ten tomorrow morning. It's a Hogsmeade weekend." _Just like it was when I left._ "I will give you some money, since I suspect you will need to buy clothes." _Duh._ _I knew I'd forgotten something. I only have modern clothes. I didn't even buy seventies clothes, since I thought I would only be here for a very little while._ "Your school supplies will be in your room tomorrow night. I'm afraid the books will be a little worn."

"Thank you, Professor." He nodded and swept off. Hermione turned back into the darkness of the cavern. She approached the ferryman cautiously. "Charon?"

He regarded her suspiciously. "How do you know my name?"

"Lucky guess. Pluto sent me."

He held her arm to support her as she clambered into the boat. Only when she was well and truly settled did he push off shore. The journey over was uneventful for the most part, although at one point Hermione could have sworn she saw the face of a little boy staring at her out of the water. She was relieved when she stepped out of the ferry onto solid rock. "Thank you."

Charon pointed towards a tunnel that seemed to end in still more darkness.

The tunnel was twisty but short, and a handful of seconds brought Hermione into a large, circular, well-lit room. It would have been very cozy-looking, since it contained an abundance of overstuffed armchairs, except that the decorations were, disconcertingly, all green. Not just emerald, but jade, and olive, and pine. There were many plants, but none with colorful flowers, only leaves. Even the crackling fire in the (green) marble fireplace was verdant. Hermione sighed. _I suppose it suits a pair of Slytherins._

The half of the wall directly in front of Hermione was made up of windows filled in with stained glass. It was dark, now, so Hermione couldn't determine the color, but she made an educated guess.

The windows parted in two places, where stood dark wood doors. Hermione left off her exploration of those for a minute. She spun slowly on her heel to look whence she came.

Dark curtains blocked what had to be the entrance to the tunnel. To the left of that there was a canvas. She pulled on the edge and peered into the space beyond. It was an ordinary stone corridor. She tilted her head to see which portrait guarded this entrance. It was an elegant woman with white hair, lying asleep in a field. Occasionally a russet leaf floated down from one of the trees above. _That has to be Ceres._

Hermione closed the portrait hole gently, so as not to wake its slumbering occupant, and returned to her study of the room. To the left of the tunnel there was a huge bookcase, piled high with tomes. Hermione was in heaven. During a war, few things are constant, but books had always given Hermione comfort.

Beyond the bookshelf there was a marble desk with a slight curve to the back, making it fit perfectly against the wall, which was on this side -–_How lovely._—more marble. Surveying this desk, Hermione realised what was slightly off about the whole space.

If Hermione had walked into the Gryffindor common room, she would certainly have seen rolls of parchment, books thrown carelessly on the couch, half open ("Humph," Hermione muttered, because some things never change.), and chocolate frog wrappers scattered around. _This room is too neat. There are no signs of life (Saving your presence, as a mental aside to the plants.) Of course, the Gryffindor common room plays host to far more people, but… Surely the Head Boy is already here. What boy who wasn't expecting to have to share his room wouldn't make use of all the space available to him? _But then, it wasn't really that strange. She supposed that there had to be some neat boys at Hogwarts. Just because she'd never encountered one didn't mean one didn't exist. _Besides, his stuff is probably still in his room. Term just started. You're being ridiculous, Hermione._ And she was.

Hermione wasn't tired, having been awake for just under two hours, but she figured she had better find out how to enter her room. She tentatively reached out to the door nearer the desk. It should have been cool to the touch, but instead she felt as though she had dipped the tips of her fingers into lukewarm water. It was more a lack of sensation than anything else. When she looked at her hand, she drew it back in shock. Her fingers had been going through the wood.

Not for nothing was Hermione called the most curious girl in Hogwarts. The title didn't apply when she heard of personal dramas, but withhold general knowledge from Hermione, and she would pester you until you told her from sheer exhaustion. She didn't give up until she understood, if not why something worked (although one who tried to stop her from obtaining that information if it was available would regret it), then at least how. So, being Hermione Granger (despite her assumed name), she punched her hand forward, prepared for resistance, but expecting none. Her hand slid through the door and she felt the brush of air as it emerged on the other side.

Being Hermione, she quickly formed a hypothesis. She went over to the right-hand door and pressed her fingers against it. It just felt like wood. The left-hand door, then, was unquestionably hers. Or the Head Girl's, at any rate.

Hermione stepped through the left-hand door into a world of wine-red. Unlike the outer room, this was one shade, which was even more unsettling than the various greens had been.

The windows in this room were clear glass and looked out over the lake. Hermione stood for a moment, admiring the view, and then tried to draw the velvet curtains with just her mind. The castle clock struck ten. Hermione gritted her teeth in frustration and jerked the drapes closed manually.

She restored her trunk to its proper size, took off her robes, and lay on the bed on her jeans and t-shirt. Due partially to her irregular sleep pattern, but more to her growing sense of impotence, she couldn't sleep.

Instead, she just lay there, immobile, trying to accept that, in all likelihood, she would never see her world again. As much as she tried, she couldn't go numb. Finally, minutes before the clock struck five, Hermione fell asleep.

The sun was out and shining brightly, but it was cold in the cave, high in the mountains, and the people within it were dressed in little more than rags. Yet they showed no signs of discomfort. They were standing at the mouth of the cave, watching as a barn owl flew straight at them. "It's Gwen," one of the boys said finally.

The man behind him cursed. "Why would she endanger us—and herself—like that?"

"Gwen would have lost any pursuers. As for the danger to Hermione," he shrugged, "she wouldn't have sent this unless it was important." The speaker drew a hand through his black hair, which the wind immediately teased into its former position, and held out his arm as a perch.

When the owl landed gracefully, he fed her as much as could be spared (not much) from their meager supply of meat. She hooted and extended her leg so he could remove the letter.

Harry Potter (aka the-Boy-who-lived, Scarhead), Ron Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Luna Lovegood, and Neville Longbottom) gathered around to read the message. There was silence. Finally, Ron, the slowest reader, finished, and everyone looked around at his companions. No one knew exactly what to say. Various time-travelling-involving methods of ending the war had been proposed from the start of the whole affair, and they had all been rejected because of the danger inherent in the process. Hermione had been the deciding, dissenting vote on many of those ideas. She had quite a bit of influence since she had the most theoretical and practical knowledge of the concept. No one knew quite what to make of her sudden change of heart, but everyone understood that Hermione would have employed such a tactic only if she thought that the risks of refraining were very great indeed.

_If Hermione doesn't return, we're going to lose the war._ No one said it out loud, but everyone was thinking it. They had known for a while that the dark was slowly overwhelming the Light, but it was the first time they all tacitly accepted the fact that it was a state of affairs which every day grew harder to reverse. That soon it would be impossible. That even if they did survive, they would be helpless. That they were already helpless against the evil which was sweeping Britain, as was evidenced by Luna's eye, clouded over, unseeing, the stump where Kingsley's left hand should be, and the general emaciation and scarring.

Ron was the first to speak. "Now what?"

"Now," Lupin answered wearily, "we wait to allow her to get to another safe place." If we haven't heard from Hermione in two days, she's not coming back, and we can't plan on having her with us in battle." He turned abruptly and left the group. His wife followed.

Those remaining stood awkwardly for a moment, avoiding each others' eyes. Neville muttered something about going back to his research and shuffled away with Luna close on his heels. They were responsible for finding spells that could be useful. They had a respectable stack of books to peruse, courtesy of Hermione. Mercifully, the British magical government had no authority to scrutinize the magical activity in mainland Europe, so unlike Hermione, they could practice for battle.

Glowering at Gwen as though she had personally offended him, Shacklebolt nodded curtly at the Weasleys and Harry, who didn't notice, and withdrew. They were staring at the letter.

These three were the closest to Hermione. The other five mutely maneuvered around them, out of respect for their worry. Ron, in particular, was prepared to wait until they saw an owl to reassure him of his friend's safety. Harry and Ginny in tandem reasoned with him for an hour and a half before he would resume discussing strategy with Shacklebolt. Ron's mind being geared for chess, tactics were his special strength, and, as his sister pointed out, Hermione would have been furious with him for sitting idle.

And so the little party of guerrillas resumed their business of resistance, albeit it in a tenser atmosphere than previously. Two more missives arrived that day via crows, as had become the Light's standard practice whenever possible (Owls were more noticeable, with Gwen being exceptionally good at not exciting the interest of the Dark.), but neither was from Hermione. Night came, and an oppressive quiet settled over the camp. No one made any comment when Ron pulled his bundle near the entrance to the hollow and lay looking out over the valley.

A/N: Poor Ron!


	3. The Village and the Library

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it, J. K. R. does. This story is just a tribute of sorts.

* * *

Chapter 3

_In which we meet our (anti)hero._

Hermione woke at eight. For a moment she was in a panic, wondering where she was. Then her misadventures came rushing back and she groaned into her pillow. She wanted to stay in this dark room, alone, and never come out again. But she was to meet Dumbledore at ten, and she still had to get ready and eat.

Hermione hauled herself out of bed and, finding her wand on her chest of drawers, Lumos'ed several glowing orbs into the air. She could have just pulled back her window hangings, but she wanted to strip off her old clothes, which were grimy and uncomfortable because she had neglected to change them for a few days, engrossed in her work. Before the war, even Hermione wouldn't have forgotten to go through the motions of cleaning herself, but she had thought she was on the verge of a breakthrough in healing wounds caused by dark magic. She hadn't been, but by the time she realised it, she had opened Hogwarts: A History, and was unwilling to stop her research on a different topic.

Hermione went into the bathroom adjoining her room. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she made a disgusted face. _I must have been a sight to see, falling out of nowhere. It's amazing Madame Greenley didn't wash me, but then she probably had orders to let me be._

Hermione took a long shower and redressed. She just threw something on. Nothing she had was appropriate for the time period, so it wasn't like she could make a less conspicuous choice. Besides, she would be wearing her cloak.

Last night, Dumbledore had assured her that if she went into the Great Hall as though she belonged, the staff wouldn't question her and the students wouldn't approach her until they were away from the teachers. Sure enough, when she walked in, every eye in the place was on her, and she knew the whispers were in reference to her sudden materialization, the more amazing because everyone knew that it was impossible to apparate on Hogwarts grounds, but no one accosted her. She reached her seat unmolested. _How strange it is to be sitting here. The change of position is a little disorienting._

Another thing was that Hermione had always had Harry or Ron sitting beside her. Now she sat alone at one end of the long Slytherin table. Hermione looked for Dumbledore and found him at the far end of the staff table, at such an angle as made it impossible for her to see him well. She spent the meal staring steadily at her plate.

When she rose, head down, not making eye contact, the buzzing began again. When she was almost to the door, all noise stopped abruptly. She looked up to see that a second more of not looking where she was going, and she would have collided with three of her new housemates. The one to Hermione's left was a blond who could only be a Malfoy. Beside him, easily a head taller than Hermione, there was a boy whom Hermione couldn't identify. At least, not immediately. After a brief second of blankness, she remembered a memory that Harry had once entered.

Tall, dark, and, handsome? _Check_. A seventh-year Slytherin in 1944? _Check._ Head Boy? Hermione's eyes traveled to the front of his uniform, looking for the telltale badge. After a moment, she swallowed. _Check._

If Hermione had had time to fully process the fact that she was looking up into the face of the man who would kill thousands—and had already murdered his own father and grandparents, for he was wearing the infamous ring-she would either have cast the killing curse on him then and there, hang the consequences in the future, or would have reverted to her Muggle mindset and punched him in the face. The world will never know.

The boy to Riddle's right, only vaguely familiar to Hermione, snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Do you mind?"

Hermione blinked and snapped back to reality. She had been standing there for God knows how long, staring at Riddle. _Oops._ She sidestepped and fled the hall, not seeing the spark of curiosity that her reaction had brought to Dumbledore's eyes. The Transfiguration professor made a silent vow to keep an even closer eye on the Riddle boy than he had before. As for Tom Riddle, he sat down at the Slytherin table without any apparent interest in the newcomer. Only a close friend would have caught the thoughtful glint in his eyes, and Tom Riddle had no close friends. The clamor in the hall slowly returned to its usual deafening pitch.

Hermione glanced up at the clock in the entrance hall. Half an hour until she was supposed to be in Dumbledore's office to receive an allowance for clothes. She would have to ask about how she could repay him. Not that she had no money; she had a small fortune in her trunk, but not a single knut was dated earlier than 1965. The oldest piece of money she had was 1965. She knew this because she was quite familiar with the changing designs on wizarding coins, and she could identify every coin by its pattern without seeing the date.

So it would have to be labor. And better wait near the Transfiguration room than here, where every passing first year would gawk. She got up and strode purposefully through the halls. Experience had taught her that if you acted as though you had authority, people would treat you like you did. An example of this was that people were chary of being caught gaping at someone who had somewhere better to be.

She had left the hall before Dumbledore had, and she hadn't seen him pass her, but he was already in his office. Hermione was slightly miffed. _My way is obviously not the fastest. Why did I never learn of a faster way? It would definitely have made my life easier._

"Ah, Miss Grey." He waved a hand at a sack on his desk. "I trust you found your room to your liking."

"Yes, sir. But I had a question."

"Hmm?"

"I found another portrait hole leading to the Heads' common room. It looked like it was a picture of Ceres."

Dumbledore nodded. "Ah, yes. That is a sort of back entrance. Not as grand, but a lot quicker than making the trip over river. We only have the front way because one of the previous headmasters thought that the Heads should be in some way distinguished form their classmates. The back way opens with the password 'Kore.' In the spring and summer, only the back way is open, that being when Proserpine joins her mother.

"A word of advice. Never try to enter through the front way if Proserpine is not there. You would be trapped and held there until she returned, and she has never in the past returned to her painting before the last day of summer. This warning applies even if Pluto makes an appearance and assures you that you will be safe. He is well-intentioned overall, but he manipulates mortals for amusement."

"I'll keep that in mind. Sir, how will I repay the money you have given me?"

"The school has a scholarship fund from the Ministry of Magic for students who would otherwise be unable to attend Hogwarts because of their inability to purchase supplies. I drew this money from that pool. You do not have to pay the money back." He held up a hand, and Hermione closed her mouth, which had been opening to protest. "If honor obligates you to reimburse us, then you can help us with the first-year potions students. They need a tutor. Professor Slughorn is very busy at the moment and does not have time to give them extra lessons. The Head Boy currently pays for his supplies in that manner, but he is imposing, and it would be good for him to have a gentler influence in the room, to soothe the children."

"What if I'm terrible at Potions?"

"I very much doubt that, Miss Grey. But if that is so, it is no matter. You will be acting as the kindly half of the pair, assuaging the students' irrational-" Was it just Hermione or was Dumbledore's usually mild voice heavy with irony? She remembered Harry's saying that Dumbledore had been the only teacher who saw through Riddle's façade of innocence. "-fear of Mr. Riddle. Mr. Riddle is capable of handling the teaching part himself."

"Sir, the Head Boy, Tom Riddle…" Her voice faded. _What exactly should I say? I can't tell him what I know about Riddle._ "Never mind. I'll be going." She picked up the bag of gold and walked out.

When she was at the door, Dumbledore called her back. "Miss Grey!"

"Sir?"

"When you return to your room tonight, ask Mr. Riddle about the times for the potions lessons, as well as the password to the Slytherin common room, to which you have the same access as any other of your house. And be back at Hogwarts by seven."

"Yes, professor."

Hermione made her way out of the castle and down towards the village. It was strange, going to Hogsmeade alone, and at a wlak rather than in a carriage. She'd always had Harry and/or Ron with her. But Harry and Ron hadn't been born yet, and she didn't know anyone who was alive now. So she went down by herself.

She winced as she looked down at her cloak. _I'm a Slytherin now. I probably shouldn't be wearing red. _With a flick of her wrist, her cloak was emerald green. Since it was such a minor change, it should last for a month or so before she had to charm it again. It felt strange to be intentionally wearing the colors of a people whom she had always despised as, if not Death Eaters in training, at least a prejudiced, small-minded community.

_I'm not one of them, no matter what the stupid Hat said. What does it know, anyway? Stupid Hat._

Hermione had started stomping down the hillside with the unpleasant recollection that a magical being (object?) considered her a better fit as a snake than a lion. Once more, she failed to look where she was headed. This time, though, she had no warning before she crashed into a young woman. Hermione had been going down hill quite quickly, and her momentum allowed them to stride forward for another few feet before the two tumbled to the ground in a heap in a tangle of limbs.

The other girl was back on her feet before Hermione, and she extended a hand to help Hermione up. The latter took it gratefully. In a second, she was on her feet, apologising profusely to a girl with black hair and warm, friendly eyes.

"Don't worry about it. I'm Eileen Prince." For a moment, Hermione was speechless. _She doesn't look at all like her son, except for the hair color._ Severus Snape was tall and thin, with cold black eyes. Eileen was short and pleasantly plump, and her eyes were brown. Hermione had to fight down a sense of surrealism.

"Hermione Grey."

"You were in the Great Hall at breakfast. You're in Slytherin, but you didn't come into the dormitory last night. There's a rumor going around that you're sleeping in the Head Girl's room."

"Only because the Slytherin dormitory was full. There's only so much magical expansion possible in a given space, and there wasn't room for me to sleep in the normal dormitory. The real Head Girl is a Gryffindor who never uses the room, so…"

"Ah, yes. Marie de Martineaux. A mudblood show-off. No one likes her." _This from the girl who will marry a muggle._ "Well, no one but the Gryffindors, and they don't really count." Hermione smiled weakly. _From Eileen's description, I'll probably like her. What would Eileen say if she knew _I_ was a mudblood, show-off Gryffindor?_

Eileen extended an invitation for Hermione to come to Honeydukes with her, but Hermione politely declined and the Slytherin didn't push. They exchanged, "Nice to meet you"s and separated.

Hermione made her way to a tiny, inexpensive shop which sold both formal and informal robes, as well as clothes that were appropriate for wearing outside of school. Hermione bought herself three plain black robes and a number of black and green outfits. She much more than enough money left for two pairs of blue jeans. She was dying to purchase a sky-blue outfit, as well as a classic burgundy top, but she had never seen Slytherins wearing any colors other than green, black, white, and shades of grey. It was actually a little bit creepy.

_Surely they don't all _like_ wearing those colors. I know I'll get tired of it if I stay longer than a month._ But Hermione couldn't afford to stand out. _Any more than you already do, you mean, Miss Privately Tutored?_ Hermione sighed.

Hermione paid for her new, drab clothes. So boring and unmemorable were they that she could probably have worn them at any time in the twentieth century without anyone finding them strange. _It's astonishing that I can still think about clothes when I'm stuck a half century in the past with no obvious way to get back. And I can't even perform the task I came back to do._

Hermione bought a croissant and sat down on a bench to eat and people watch. Most of the people milling about were students, but there were a few miscellaneous village dwellers.

The most prominent dynamic, regardless of the ages of those concerned, was couples. An old man shuffled along, led by a delicate-looking lady with graying hair. A Gryffindor boy, probably a third-year on his first weekend away from school, walked with a fresh-faced Hufflepuff girl. His hand kept drifting toward hers and then pulling back. Meanwhile, two girls in the blue and bronze of Ravenclaw were kissing in an alley.

Hermione waved to a passing band of Slytherin girls, of whom Eileen was a member. If the black-haired girl was surprised at being thus hailed by a very slight acquaintance, she hid it well; Eileen's face was completely impassive. _I don't suppose anyone survives long in Slytherin if he or she can't hide his or her emotions. Or maybe I'm reading too much into it and she is happy to see me again._

Eileen tipped her head very slightly in Hermione's general direction, but didn't make eye contact. Hermione only had to wonder for a second if Eileen's frigidity was meant to be an insult. She soon remembered Malfoy and Zabini's inclining their heads only slightly more cordially upon seeing their close friend Pansy after a summer apart. The Golden Trio would have waved and Hermione would have hugged each boy. The Silver Trio had always been more subdued. _Looks like that wasn't just a Malfoy thing._

_I have to stop acting like a Gryffindor. I am a pureblood. I am aristocracy. Purebloods, except for blood traitors like the Weasleys _(Hermione flinched to hear herself think that, even though she didn't really believe it.)_, do not flop their hands about in greeting._

A small part of Hermione was perversely, irrelevantly pleased with her failure to meet Slytherin standards. _Suck that, you stupid Hat. I'm still a Gryffindor._

Dumbledore had told Hermione to return to the castle by seven. It was not yet one, but Hermione had finished her business in Hogsmeade. She had plenty of money left, but she had to make it last. Even if she only had to stay in the past for the rest of the fall term, Hermione would need to buy various accoutrements with which she was currently well-supplied. She would save her gold until she needed it.

And so Hermione made her way back to the castle. The path was deserted; the students were relishing their freedom, and none of them, save Hermione, would arrive at the castle a minute before seven.

The castle was eerily silent. The first and second-years, who were not permitted to visit the village, were holed up in their respective towers. The teachers were probably barricaded in their offices, relishing the day of peace. Excepting, of course, the Herbology teacher, Professor Arbuscula, who was in her greenhouse, preparing her plants for the colder weather soon to come.

Hermione entered her common room through the back entrance, stopping dead when she saw the Head Boy seated in a chair by the desk. He was writing quickly, but only his head was turned downwards. Unlike anyone else, who would have been leaning towards his paper, he was sitting bolt upright. He had to have heard her enter, but he didn't as much as glance in her direction. This relieved Hermione, who wasn't sure she could face the world's most ambitious sociopath in his teenage years without Crucio_'_ing him. _On the other hand, it might be better to get it over with, as long as I keep calm. I can't kill him without jeopardizing the future, so I'm going to have to talk to him at some point._

She walked up behind him. "Tom? Tom Riddle?" He tilted his head just slightly towards her. It took all of her willpower not to reach for her wand. She had no doubt he could beat her on the draw. But the sum of her previous encounters with the maniac before her had fine-tuned her fight-or-flight reaction. Whenever she was in the presence of Lord Voldemort or his followers, it fixed only very briefly on flight. With the remembrance of the Quiddich World Cup the summer of 1994, and Cedric Diggory's death ten months later, she almost always decided to fight. If that didn't do it, recalling Dumbledore's death did. And if there ever came a day when that didn't work, she had other horrific recollections to draw from. But right now she couldn't fight and she couldn't take flight. This was a different sort of conflict.

Hermione pasted an unconvincingly bright smile on her face. "I'm Hermione Grey. I'm a transfer student. Dumbledore said you could tell me the common room password and I'm supposed to help you with extra potions for the first years."

"The password to the common room is 'Piceus.' You can tell Dumbledore that I don't need your help."

Other than the obvious physical differences, the most striking dissimilarity between the Dark Lord and his milder, more human alter ego was that while Voldemort was given to monologues and gloating, Tom Riddle didn't mince words. It brought home to Hermione the truth of the matter: She was not yet dealing with the most feared wizard of all time. That shouldn't have relaxed her, but it did. _Remember, Hermione, he's already killed his family. And poor Myrtle. _

Hermione tensed again at the thought. Riddle watched her out of the corner of his eye. **She's not afraid of me. **This was quite unusual. He hadn't given her reasonable cause (yet), but still. **She should have at least heard stories.** Some people were vain about their Quiddich game, or their alacrity in Charms. Tom Riddle prided himself on his ability to nurture an instinctual fear in those around him. Well, he would fix that gap in her knowledge soon enough.

He found her interesting for another, more compelling reason. The only emotion that Tom Riddle thought was stronger than fear was hatred, and this girl had plenty of it. A startling amount seemed to be directed at him. It didn't show in her voice or on her face, but he had seen it in the Great Hall in that first instant when there was recognition in her expression, and she was radiating it now.

Hermione snapped out of her reverie and realised that it was her turn to speak. "I don't think I can do that. You see, I need the work, the same as you do."

Riddle raised an eyebrow. "A pureblood who needs the scanty income that comes from tutoring the most hopeless lot of snot-nosed brats who ever set foot in Hogwarts? Won't Mummy and Daddy pay your way?"

Hermione was going to protest that she wasn't a pureblood, but then she remembered that she was a Slytherin who had been privately tutored. _Duh. _

Riddle's question would have come across as vicious from anyone else, but Riddle's tone was conversational, more curious than malicious. Hermione _wished_ he'd sounded spiteful. That would have made her next sentence much easier to say. As it was, it was hard to remember to whom she was speaking. _Strange._

"My parents are dead." If anyone had told Hermione that she would be having such a conversation with Tom Riddle, she would have assumed that her next words would be, "You killed them." At the moment, though, she felt no compulsion to reveal this. Instead she added, "We never had much money, anyway." This wasn't strictly true (They had had money up until Hermione was seven, at which point they had started scrimping and saving to pay for chemotherapy for Jane Granger's mother.), but Hermione's conscience didn't make a fuss. It had given up long ago.

"Every Tuesday and Thursday at seven, but not this Tuesday because Slughorn is using the lab." Riddle turned back to his work. Hermione muttered a thank-you and went into her room, blissfully unaware of the dark eyes trying, with limited success, to stare a hole in her head. Not a painful-death kind of stare, but a what-is-she-thinking-about kind of stare.

Hermione's failure to notice Riddle's gaze didn't really matter. If she had turned back to confirm her suspicions that he was watching her, all she would have seen would be the back of her companion's head.

Riddle might be intrigued by the girl's nerve, but for the moment he was acting on the assumption that she was ignorant and generally hostile rather than aware of his true nature and brave enough to face him anyway. He wondered about her reaction to seeing him in the Great Hall but concluded that it was probably embarrassment about almost running into him or else stunned by his looks (Riddle was not proud of his looks, merely aware of their affect on the opposite sex). Both were very plausible, and neither totally wrong.

**Better for her that she's stupid,** he mused. **If I thought her dangerous, I would have to see that she met with an accident.**

If Hermione had heard Tom's thoughts, her initial reaction would have been amusement at the idea that Voldemort would trouble to hide the cause of her death. Part of Hermione still thought she was facing her Lord Voldemort, who killed publicly, in the name of the greater good. Only later, when she stopped to think about it, would it have occurred to her to be worried. But Hermione didn't think any of this, because she had never quite got the hang of Legimency, and in any case, she wasn't in the same room as Riddle, let alone looking into his eyes. She had already decided that that wasn't going to happen. Hermione couldn't read minds, but Riddle could.

She put her clothes away and sat on her bed for a moment, thinking about what to do with the rest of her day. She decided that the first order of business was finding the snake statue and seeing if it already bore the inscription for which she had come so far. _A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless._

Hermione made her way back through the common room, ignoring Riddle and ignored in turn, and down to the dungeons. This took her awhile. She could find the Potions Room easily enough, but she had never gone much further into the catacombs. She had thought the corridors nearest the rest of the castle were creepy, but they had nothing on these eerie shadows and strange noises. It was very much like being the innocent victim in a Muggle horror movie, wandering blindly around the castle. Only Hogwarts: A History's section on the castle's layout, and a boy in green's emerging from a side corridor got her to where she needed to be. She went down the passage whence the boy had come.

Harry and Ron had told her that there was no portrait for the Slytherin common room, just a patch of wall which concealed a door. She was relieved that, for the moment at least, she didn't have to address random stretches of the corridor in the hopes that they were more than they seemed. She just had to look into every single one of the dark, creepy niches in the area for a stone snake.

She started at the beginning of the passage and worked her way down. A little less than halfway along, she found it. She checked the others to make sure, but it was the only snake. Either this was it, or the inscription had been placed on a statue that wasn't there yet. It was smaller than she had expected, only about a foot in length. It was no trouble at all for her to lift it up and check the bottom. It wasn't marked.

Hermione was bitterly disappointed, but not surprised. This had been a just-in-case look. _Now, to the library. There's no reason for me to stay here any longer. I have to go back and help the others salvage our situation. _She didn't say, _If that's still possible._ She didn't ask, _What help can I be?_ And she didn't even let herself think, _I'll only die with them._ She just wandered around until she knew where she was, and then took off for her comfort zone.

The library didn't look much different from the way it had in the 90's. The librarian was a tall, sallow woman who looked far more like Snape than his mother ever would, but otherwise, Hermione half expected to turn the corner and find Neville poring over his Charms, trying desperately to make the information stick in his brain. Instead, she started upon discovering the Head Boy sitting at a table near the back, engrossed in what looked from the illustrations to be Bonding Charms throughout the Ages. Hermione had looked through it to find information on the Dark Mark. _Three guesses why Tom Riddle is reading that._

She cleared her throat. "Fascinating, isn't it, the sinister uses to which people put a charm which was created with such innocent intent?"

"Hardly extraordinary," Riddle replied. "There will always be people who pervert what is perfectly innocuous in itself."

_You should know._ "That's a cynical view."

"Not really. Just realistic."

"Isn't somebody a cheerful soul?"

Riddle didn't dignify that with a response. Realising that the conversation—if a handful of words deserved the title—was over, Hermione left him and continued her research.

Three hours later, Hermione finished The Fourth Dimension: the Mysteries of Time and its Manipulation. It had been quite interesting, if a little out-dated (this _was_ the forties) but it told Hermione nothing that could be used to help her. "Fascinating, isn't it, how some people try to use that knowledge which should remain theoretical?"

Hermione's head snapped up. She hadn't heard him come up behind her. She twisted her head to look at him, only to have to turn it forwards again as he sat down opposite her.

"You're opposed to time-travel?"

"Time deals with a much greater scale than any human can truly comprehend. Meddling with it produces ill effects."

"But anything that is changed by time-travel has already been changed, so it was probably meant to happen."

"Nothing is just _meant_ to happen. Time-travel is dangerous. The Ministry might think that they've discovered a device to bend time for their own ends, but it will only end badly." Time-turners, Hermione remembered, hadn't been put into regular ministry use until 1947, but they had to have been working on the idea for some time. It made sense that the public would have some idea of the project.

"You can't know that."

"Did you know that every wizard who has looked through a wormhole into a different time has gone mad eventually?"

Hermione wanted to point out that the Hawkins study had proven that one _could_ look safely back in time through wormholes, provided one exercised caution (She herself had considered using a wormhole for her quest, but had rejected the idea almost immediately because she wouldn't have been able to see the bottom of the snake through the hole, and no one yet had actually _gone through_ a wormhole alive), but she wisely chose to remain silent. Anton Hawkins hadn't been born until 1951. She shrugged. "That's not time-travel. That's just looking into the past. Isn't it possible that what drives them to insanity is the method rather than the application?"

Riddle rejected this idea and Hermione was drawn into an argument. She had never had a serious, scholarly argument with any student other than Percy, who was rather stuffy. Under any other circumstances, she would have been enjoying herself, but under her exhilaration at not having to hold herself back—Riddle could keep up with her—her thoughts ran in a loop that went something like this: y_ou killed my parents, along with countless strangers. And you've spend the last twenty years trying to kill my best friend. What I wouldn't give to be able to kill you now without arousing anyone's suspicions!_ But she didn't. She wouldn't do anyone any good if she a) changed the future, possibly for the worse, and b) went to Azkaban for the use of an Unforgivable. So she just tried to focus on having a conversation with another student.

They debated for an hour and a half, one or the other getting up occasionally to find a book to support his or her position. By six o'clock, Hermione was no closer to finding what she needed to get back home (They hadn't discussed going into the future, at least not from a practical standpoint.), but on the table lay a stack of books, all of which promised to be interesting and/or informative.

The conversation might have kept going indefinitely, but the librarian (Madame Thurgood, Hermione discovered later), came by and asked if they were using the books.

That broke the spell. Hermione and Riddle went to opposite ends of the library. She resumed her research and so, presumably, did he.

At five to seven, Hermione left the library for the Great Hall. She could still see Riddle sitting in his corner with his head down, oblivious to all around him. _He's going to be late for dinner. _Anyone hearing Hermione's disapproving mental voice would never have guessed that she herself had been late to dinner many times because she had been holed up in the library. _He was late for breakfast, as well. A habit of his, maybe. I_

Why was she observing his habits? Hermione was a firm believer in the (largely Muggle-practiced) field of psychology. Now that she was here, anything that she learned of Tom Riddle could help them defeat Voldemort in the future. _If I watch him closely enough, I may even discover the location of the horcrux without the inscription._ A girl can dream.

Riddle was thirty minutes late for dinner. Most of the students were halfway through their meals when he entered with Malfoy and his other crony. If Hermione hadn't been working on maintaining a poker face, something which she had never managed throughout her school years (with the exception of fifth year, in Umbridge's office), she would have rolled his eyes. _Does every Slytherin Prince feel the need to make an entrance?_ She surprised herself with the thought. Was he really the Slytherin Prince? That was strange in itself. He might be on his way to becoming Lord Voldemort, but he was still a half-blood, and he couldn't have hidden that from his housemates for very long.

But, of course, there was the Heir of Slytherin card to play. That had to have redeemed his birth in their eyes. That with his charisma and obvious leadership qualities could easily have made him their idol. _And if all that fails to ensure their loyalty, they're plainly terrified of him. Fear is a powerful motivator._

Riddle did not make his way to his usual seat at the middle of the table, opting instead to head over to where Hermione was sitting alone. **Our encounter in the library made it obvious that she is far from stupid, and what's more, is not easily cowed. Time to try a different approach.** "Mind if I join you?" He flashed her the winning smile that he usually reserved for his professors.

"Not at all."

Riddle took the seat opposite her, with his goons on either side. "This is Abraxas Malfoy and Antonin Dolohov."

Hermione nodded stiffly to each of them, noting that most of the eyes in the room were on them, most particularly those of the upper-year girls. Tom Riddle was scary up close, but many girls had only seen him form afar or around professors. And then there were the ones who thought the dark, brooding look was sexy. _Just what I need. A bunch of Voldemort's groupies getting entirely the wrong idea and hating me out of jealousy._ She cheered herself up with the thought that three-quarters of the school would already hate her by virtue of her house, so Riddle's gesture of welcome could hardly alienate them any more than already had been done.

But the Slytherins… The only girl among them, from the smallest first year to the hulking 40's equivalent of Millicent Bulstrode, who wasn't shooting Hermione a death glare was Eileen Prince, who was blithely sipping her pumpkin juice.

But the cloud of envy around her was the least of Hermione's worries. She eyed Riddle suspiciously. _Something's up. And that smile is seriously creepy..._ "Aren't we friendly tonight, Riddle? Do you want something?"

"I just thought that after our _tete-a-tete_ in the library, I ought to come over and say hello."

Hermione groaned inwardly. Riddle was speaking softly, but those near the quartet were straining their ears. _So much for not giving people the wrong idea. That definitely did not sound like he's referring to an innocent talk. _The girls' glares had intensified. Then she realized something quite disturbing. _He's _flirting_ with me!_

Hermione did not experience any of the normal reactions to flirting, that is to say, she was not giddy, responsive, shy, or repulsed. She was just a little bit apprehensive. _I _know_ he's not doing this because he thinks I'm the loveliest girl ever to grace Hogwarts with her presence. What is he playing at?_

Since she couldn't get a grasp of what he was expecting her to say, she lapsed into a sullen silence.

A/N: Alright, so I took some liberties with the Slytherin common room as regards to the creepy environs. I couldn't resist a little mockery of the idea that all cunning, sarcastic people are by definition the epitome of evil.

Also, I'm not a physicist. I tried not to say anything too specific about wormholes. If I totally butchered the theory, I'm sorry.

One last thing. A reviewer thought that I'd skipped half of this chapter. This is not so. It is a cliffhanger, albeit a very bad excuse for one.


	4. The Return to School

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it, J. K. R. does. This story is just a tribute of sorts.

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Chapter 4

_In which Hermione becomes a student again._

Hermione left the Great Hall in a hurry that night. The next day, Riddle was at her side during all three meals. He was being positively friendly to her, asking her if she needed help finding her way around the castle, if she needed help catching up—the rest of the seventh-years were a few weeks ahead of her—if everyone was being nice to her. Everyone was, and Hermione had no doubt that it had to do with her association with Riddle. It had been less than twenty-four hours, but Hermione could already sense a difference in the gazes directed at her. Where there had been blatant stares, now there were covert glances when they thought she wasn't looking. And the one person who had talked to her was a smaller boy who bumped into her in the halls, stuttered an apology, and ran in the opposite direction as fast as his feet would carry him. It was creepy. She wondered how Harry had stood it.

And Hermione knew it was only going to get worse. She had arrived on Saturday; it was now Monday. Her first day in classes.

Hermione had blown Riddle off when he offered to help her catch up to her classmates. Instead she studied alone in her room with her beaten-up textbooks, which, true to his word, Dumbledore had provided for her, along with a cauldron and other miscellaneous school supplies that she had been unable to find in Hogsmeade. She was now back in top Hermione form, which is to say that not only was she caught up, she was far ahead of the curriculum. So, despite the bubble around her (Do Not Touch Under Pain of Tom Riddle was practically emblazoned on her forehead, as it was with all of his friends. Well, friends is too strong a word. Those followers Riddle considered to valuable to allow them to suffer any pain not inflicted by him.), it was a relatively tranquil Hermione who left the Silver Trio in the Great Hall and half-skipped to the Charms classroom. She was quite looking forward to this class until she remembered that they had it with Gryffindor.

At one point, say, a few decades in the future, Hermione would have been happy about spending time with Gryffindors. But where the Slytherins seemed to see Riddle's interest in her as a general stamp of approval, it just made the Gryffindors despise her more. Understandable, but it upset her. She couldn't stop thinking of them as her friends, Neville, Harry, and a mass of Weasleys. Every so often, she would catch a glimpse of tousled black hair at the Gryffindor table or near their common room, and she had to choke back a cry of greeting. She didn't know his name, but she was sure he was a Potter. Not likely Harry's grandfather, too young, but perhaps James' uncle or something of the sort. She was relieved that she had yet to see a Weasley; her reaction would almost certainly have been dramatic and might have poked a hole in her clueless façade.

_I have to relax. There's still plenty of time to make new friends. I've only been here for three days. Besides, Riddle is bound to get tired of whatever game he's playing sooner or later, and then I can go back to just being the transfer student._ It was of no account, anyway. She wasn't planning to stick around long enough for Riddle to get bored with her, let alone long enough to go about forming relationships.

Hermione was leaning up against the wall when she heard a lone set of footsteps coming around the corner. Too loud to be Riddle's and too light to be either Malfoy's or Dolohov's. Riddle walked like a cat, Malfoy wore boots that made a distinctive clicking sound which could be heard from a mile away, and Dolohov walked heavily. _Is it sad that I can recognize their footsteps after only two days? _She told herself that it was perfectly natural, considering her past. Hermione had had plenty of experience where a Polyjuiced stranger masquerading as someone close to her was given away by his stride or an uncustomary facial expression, so she had learned to notice such details.

It was a Gryffindor girl with shoulder-length strawberry-blonde hair and huge blue eyes peering at Hermione from behind her bangs. Hermione hadn't seen her in the hallways before. The girl was very frail, and seemed to be bending under the weight of her bookbag. She leaned against the wall directly across from Hermione, who shot her a tight smile. The girl jumped two feet in the air. _What did I do? Oh yeah, the whole Slytherin thing. I hate the Sorting Hat. If we survive, I'm going to go back to Hogwarts and find it, and then I'm going to cut holes in it. Because honestly, if I have to be stuck fifty-six years in the past, why couldn't I be among friendly people? People who don't avoid me like the plague out of some strange twisted kind of respect? The Gryffindors wouldn't have started ignoring me if their hero was nice to me._ But evidently they _would_ condemn her for having a burr that she couldn't shake off. And for being a snake.

_Is it _my_ fault the guy won't leave me alone?_ Of course, it had probably never occurred to the girls that she wouldn't _want_ to spend time with the Slytherin Prince.

The Gryffindor was giving her the tiniest, shyest smile Hermione had ever seen. She wanted to tell the girl to grow a spine. _Gryffindors are supposed to be brave! Even Neville wasn't that skittish. _

She decided to do a Good Deed. She walked over to the stranger and stuck out her hand. "I'm Hermione Grey."

"N-nice to meet you."

Hermione waited a moment, but the girl had fallen silent. "And you are?" she prompted.

"Me? Um, I'm Marie. Marie de Martineaux."

_The girl Eileen had been so contemptuous of. _"You're Head Girl, aren't you? I'm staying in your room for the moment."

"Yes, I am." Marie cringed away as she acknowledged her title, as though she was anticipating a blow. _She probably is. I can't imagine that my lot—_this was the first time Hermione thought of them as "her lot," but she didn't notice—_are very nice to her about it. They're just jealous._

"Congratulations. I understand that that's a great honor."

"Thank you, but it really isn't all that great." Marie wasn't being falsely modest. _She really thinks that she doesn't deserve honor. I don't know her that well; she may not be worthy of it, but still…_

A group of Slytherins came around the corner, Riddle at their head. He was smiling suavely at a simpering brunette who was clinging on to his arm. Only Hermione could see his distaste.

When this girl saw Hermione, she released Riddle and came over to her while the other Slytherins looked on. "Careful, Grey, you don't want to be seen hanging around the wrong sort." She indicated Marie. "And de Martineaux definitely qualifies."

Hermione was reminded very strongly of an encounter Harry had had with Malfoy in his first year. She hadn't been present, but Ron had told her about it several times. What was it Harry had said? Oh, yeah. "I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks." There was a beat of utter silence.

Ino Rosier—for that was her name—sneered. "Suit yourself. But I'd watch yourself around her. She's crazy."

Hermione was about to reply, but Riddle stepped in. If Hermione could read his face, so he could read hers. He didn't like Ino, and if Grey wanted to get into it with her, that was fine by him, but Professor Xanthus would come along any minute, and he couldn't let a professor see that he'd let his classmates fight. "Let it be, Rosier." Like a dg at her master's call, Rosier slunk back to the pack. Riddle glanced at Hermione, who had her arms crossed. He went over to join her. His retinue followed at a few feet's distance.

"Martineaux, Grey." He nodded to each of them. Marie ducked her head and didn't look at him, and Hermione tipped her head very slightly in return.

**If I'm the Silver Prince, then she's the Ice Queen. She still doesn't like me. **Riddle wondered if he should go back to being aloof and threatening. **No. It's only been a day. There's still plenty of time for her to decide that she wants me as a friend. **

Patience had been Tom Riddle's watchword for seven years. Last summer it had finally paid off. He had gotten his revenge on the older Riddles, who had abandoned his mother while she was pregnant with him. He had a new goal now, a more ambitious one, and if he hadn't read Grey's power signature wrong, it would be very much to his advantage and hers for him to have her on his side.

_Is that a Slytherin thing, calling _everybody_ by his or her last name? Malfoy and his friends did it, Voldemort does it, and Lord-Voldemort-to-be does it as well. Would it kill them to call people by their given names? _To be fair, she called him "Riddle." _That's different. _He's_ a murderer. I can't just start calling him "Tom." I just… can't._

"Do you want something?"

Riddle was the picture of innocence. "Just being friendly. Not everyone is as unsociable as you seem to be, Grey."

_Great, now I'm the bad guy. Touché, Riddle. _"I'm sorry," she said, as apologetically as she could bring herself to be, all things considered. "I'm just a little testy this morning." Normally she wouldn't have bothered with the courtesy, but she wanted Marie to be comfortable around her, and that wouldn't happen unless she seemed approachable. Biting Riddle's head off would give a slightly different impression.

Riddle smiled back at her. Objectively, Hermione thought him quite handsome. But in her capacity as a time-traveler who had seen what a psychopath he was, she knew that he was acting even more than she was. Hermione's civility towards him was founded on a general graciousness that had been hammered into her from birth. Riddle had been raised in an atmosphere where such things were undoubtedly less important than blunt power. He had to be going against his nature in being so cordial to the professors and to her.

Which brought her back to the question, _Why is Riddle being so nice?_ He hadn't exactly been rolling out the welcome mat when she first saw him, but he had very quickly seemed to change his attitude. She knew better than to think him sincere. _He can't think that I'm going to fall for his sickly sweet solicitousness._

Actually, he had thought that, at least at first. But now he was beginning to realise that her hostility wasn't just going to melt away with his first pleasant overtures, even though his were the only ones she'd received, so far as he'd noticed. Even Eileen, generally kind to new Slytherins, seemed to be keeping her distance. **All the better for me. When I need her to, Prince can step in, and I can be the benevolent overlord who has made it possible.**

Professor Xanthus appeared. He was a little man with bulging eyes and a long nose. He greeted the Gryffindors and Tom warmly enough, but spared only a few perfunctory words of welcome for Hermione, and completely ignored the other Slytherins. He started class without any sort of preamble.

Hermione sat down in the front row, beside Marie, feigning unconsciousness of the disbelieving stares of the Gryfindors, by whom she was now completely surrounded, and the hinting jerks of Eileen's head, pointing her to the green and silver side of the classroom.

Hermione did not speak to Marie at all during the next hour. When the bell rang and Xanthus cut off mid-sentence, clearly as happy the lesson was over as his pupils were, she got up, gathered her things, and left, only taking the time to gutter a quick "bye," which the Head Girl returned dazedly. _Honestly, you'd think no one had ever talked to her before. The Head Girl is supposed to have authority. I can't see her giving orders to _anyone.

The next class was Transfigurations with Professor Dumbledore. Hermione found herself a good seat near the front. She had been looking forward to this. But she hadn't been prepared for the pretty young woman who was writing on the board in a familiar neat, tidy hand. She swallowed hard as Minerva McGonagall turned to face the class. Her hair was coming down from her bun, her robes were a deep blue rather than their usual, severe black, and her face was unlined, but she was all in all much the same woman Hermione had known.

_Oh, Professor._ Hermione had felt a lump in her throat when she had seen Dumbledore alive and well, but he had been dead for a few years, and she had had time to come to terms with that loss. This was different. This hit closer to home.

When Hermione had seen her last, McGonagall had been lying comatose, not in St. Mungo's, where she could receive proper treatment, but in a bed in the new Order headquarters. She couldn't be moved to the wizarding hospital because _they_ had control of that, too. When the Death Eaters had closed in on the headquarters, Harry, Ron, and the others had been able to escape, but they had had to leave McGonagall behind, and they didn't know what had happened to her. Hermione had cried for the last time when she read her friends' letter shortly afterwards.

McGonagall stepped away from the board as Dumbledore emerged from his office. The students, who had been talking amongst themselves, fell silent. Dumbledore started the lesson after sparing a fleeting smile for Hermione. He was an engaging teacher who drew the class into the lesson. Hermione had the brief, traitorous thought that while McGonagall had been a wonderful teacher, Dumbledore was by far the superior.

Hermione raised her hand several times to answer questions, but Dumbledore only called on her once. The same went for Riddle, whose hand consistently went up in synch with hers. Instead of letting the class lean on the few more scholarly of its number, he forced each of them to think for himself. Hermione saw the Slytherins, whom she had always regarded as less than studious, engaged and interested in the lesson. For the space of an hour, Hermione thought it might not be so bad to be one of the snakes.

Then the class ended and the spell was broken. Hermione, Riddle, and a few others proceeded to Arithmancy. Marie de Martineaux was in that class as well, and Hermione greeted her politely and asked her permission to sit down. The girl nodded dumbly.

The rest of the week passed in a similar fashion. Hermione was taking eleven classes, including Flying, at which she was rubbish, and Divination, which he had dropped after her third year. She went to Dumbledore, who was sympathetic, but told her there was nothing he could do. Dippet had decided that Hermione should be attached like a limpet to the Head Boy so that he could act as a mentor ("Hah!" said Hermione at that).

Riddle was persistent in his attentions to her, which disgusted her, but she resigned herself. She came to the conclusion that she was beyond being surprised, but Riddle proved her wrong. In Ancient Runes on Thursday, he picked up Marie's books for her after Rosier had dashed them to the ground. As he did so, he looked straight at Hermione and winked. She was so startled that she knocked her ink well over. Cursing silently, she looked up and saw the merest trace of a satisfied smirk.

"Scourgify!" Hermione was out-of-sorts, and instead of the more subtle gesture required for the spell to work properly, she prodded the air. The effect was a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, and the ink's turning green. _Lovely.  
_

"Are you in need of some assistance?" Riddle looked truly concerned. Even knowing that he was Voldemort, she might have believed his pretense, except that it was his fault for upsetting her in the first place. So she just smiled tightly.

"I'm fine, thanks."

"No, you're not." Riddle's wand was not in evidence, and his mouth didn't move, but the ink vanished. Hermione forced herself not to glare. What he had just done, silent, wandless magic, wasn't something she could have done even if she had been in a calm, peaceful state of mind. But he didn't have to know that.

She thanked him and hurriedly left the classroom.

Hermione headed for what was rapidly becoming her spot in the Great Hall, but sopped dead when she saw that it was already occupied. Seven Slytherin girls, Eileen with her four comrades and what looked like a fifth year and a sixth-year, and four boys, one fourth year, one sixth, two seventh, had taken over the area. She turned to look for Malfoy and Dolohov, who were comforting in their constancy, and found them standing behind her, smirking. Malfoy offered her his arm, which she reluctantly accepted, placing her fingers gingerly on his satin sleeve.

She was uncomfortable, but this sort of thing was very big in Slytherin House even in her day, and it was far more pronounced in the forties. _Can't let the plebeians see that the aristocracy doesn't get along._ She shuddered immediately afterward. _That was such a Slytherin thought. But then it wasn't really mine. _The line was strikingly similar to something Malfoy had said to her once when she had been particularly cool to him.

Of course, she meant Abraxas, not his grandson. Draco Malfoy had rarely condescended to speak to her, and when he had, it had been as "Mudblood." The idea of speaking to her as a comrade, almost a confidante, would have struck him as ludicrous. It came to her, not for the first time, nor the last, that for the most part she was experiencing how Draco would have treated her had she been a pureblood and not a muggle-born and a Gryffindor to boot. _They really do show loyalty and they do have real friends, perverse and dependent on connections as their friendship is._

The only Slytherin who had yet to display a real affection for anyone was Riddle, who was polite to most of the Slytherins and nice to those in his favor, but didn't really care for anyone as far as Hermione could tell. _Although, it is possible that the other Slytherins are just as calculating as Riddle and I'm just looking for it in him. _No. She'd had years of experience with Slytherins, some good at heart, some bad, and she knew then well enough to differentiate between them and Riddle. At least, she thought she did.

To her surprise, her (honor?) guard led her into the middle of the cluster to resume her usual seat. The crowd parted like the Red Sea to let her pass. _This is either very good or very bad._ Hermione tried to think. _Have I offended anyone while I'm here? _Other than Rosier, whom she'd rarely seen talking to any of these persons and in any case didn't have the influence to make this ambush happen, there was no one. _Besides, I doubt Malfoy would lead me into an ensnarement without Riddle's permission. If this is his hand, he doesn't think the way I believed he did. Taking me down now wouldn't be very subtle._

The small assemblage closed back around her, taking her back to a Muggle biology textbook she had read when she was younger, which described the Theory of Endosymbiosis, in which one prokaryotic cell enveloped another. This was very similar, except that instead of taking thousands of years, it went by in a tenth of a second. In an instant, the Slytherins were all watching her.

Eileen finally spoke, breaking the beat-long awkward silence. "This is Victoria, Bridget, Delilah, and Seraphina." The others introduced themselves. Hermione didn't catch the younger ones' names, but the seventh-year boys were Adalric Dodgewood and Corentin, who didn't give a last name.

Adalric gave Hermione a sweeping look from her head to her toes, lingering in between, and smirked with clear appreciation. Hermione immediately disliked him. Corentin, on the other hand, bowed low, the picture of pureblood courtesy, but without the Malfoy showiness, and Hermione was disposed to think kindly of him.

They made small talk with her for a moment, Eileen bravely spurring them on whenever the conversation flagged. This went on for ten minutes, and Hermione was beginning to wonder if they would just spear her and be done with it.

Then the devil himself walked in. Seeing the cluster around Hermione, he smiled approvingly. Then it all became clear to Hermione. _Duh. That should have been obvious when I thought that Malfoy and Dolohov had to have gotten Riddle's okay. He's never a passive supporter to anything, from what I've seen. For some reason, he encouraged these _minions_ of his to come over here and make nice. _She wasn't really surprised, but as she berated herself for her idiocy in thinking that the Slytherins would welcome her without being prompted, she was surprised to note a tinge of disappointment in the back of her mind.

It wasn't that she wanted to be friends with the Slytherins. If things went well, she wouldn't be here long, and if things went badly, Slytherins weren't the type of people with whom she wanted to be associated. It was just that, for a moment, she had thought that she might have had people to talk to. Really talk to, not argue with (Riddle), insult (Malfoy and Dolohov, because of their association with Riddle and because they were just plain irritating), or coax into a uttering a few almost-inaudible phrases of neutrality on whatever the topic might be (Marie).

But that dream was shattered. _I don't want to be Riddle's pawn, and I won't be assimilated into those he already controls. _Before she could slip away, however, Hermione had an idea. Dangerous things, ideas, even at the best of times, but this was particularly perilous because those in opposition to her success had had years of practise at this game, and she was new to it.

What was Hermione plotting, you ask? _Well,_ she reasoned, _even if I can't stop Voldemort from coming to power, I can at least erode his support base. And the best way to do that is from the inside. It would be such poetic justice if the person Riddle was trying so hard to get to trust him happened to be the one who weakened him without his noticing. If I pull this off, it could have effects stretching into the distant future. Of course, I've already felt the effects, and they don't help all that much, but who knows? Maybe if I don't try this, Voldemort would have twice the Death Eaters he will in the future. _

And so Hermione made up her mind to try to curb the rising power of one of the greatest dark lords ever to walk the earth. She would just have to be very careful. If she was anything less than Mad-Eye Moody style cautious, he would see through her in a heartbeat. And if he did, as seemed highly likely? _I'll try to convince him that I'm not a threat. Try to make him see me as comic relief, something to mock. If I can do that, I'll be safe for a while. If I have t stay here and it's no longer safe for me to pretend loyalty to him, I will stop all pretense and Tom Marvolo Riddle will have a challenger._

Riddle sat down. He had pasted a look of mild surprise and pleasure on his face. Hermione thought _pasted_, but that isn't really accurate. "Pasted" implies obvious falsehood. Riddle's expression was perfect, but Hermione wasn't fooled.

Riddle had been expecting Hermione to see through this, and wasn't bothered by her glare. He couldn't make her think that he was innocent; she had long since stripped that mask away. He could, however, make her believe that he meant _her_ no harm. And he wouldn't even really have to lie. He didn't want to hurt her, yet. He just wanted to see what made her tick. If it turned out she could be bent to his will, wonderful. **If not, well, Dolohov's been wanting to wipe that haughty smile off her face.**

Yet something in Riddle rebelled at the idea of throwing her to the wolves. He didn't _like_ the girl, she was annoyingly noble in an almost Gryffindor fashion, but she had talent, and it would be such a shame to waste that. **Pity that she doesn't seem to have got the hang of being a Slytherin yet. Probably got in more on her blood than her heart, though her brain's appropriate.** Then again, it was probably a good thing that Hermione Grey was an outlier among the Slytherins. The last thing he wanted was someone with a wit to match his own, and possibly ambition, prompting the formation of factions.

The other tables were watching bug-eyed as Riddle, who had eaten with Malfoy and Dolohov for six years and then condescended to include Hermione, proceeded to pick up the threads of a conversation he and Corentin had been having in Arithmancy.

It wasn't that the watchers found it strange for Riddle to talk to these people; they were widely known to be as close to him as anyone could be to such an aloof personage. It was that Riddle _never_ joined them at a time that was typically relaxed. He gave them space during meals, with the exception of Malfoy and Dolohov, who didn't object to being singled out. On Dolohov's part, this was due largely to fear, but Malfoy liked the distinction, besides, he was, in an odd sort of way, quite fond of Riddle. And if Riddle could love anyone, Malfoy would be the equivalent of his brother.

The meal ended, and Hermione fled to her room, deigning to say good bye only to Eileen, Corentin, Adalric, and Malfoy. The first two because they had nothing but courteous to her in her limited experiences with them, the third because he seemed to have a good deal of influence over the others, and it would be good for him to like her, and the last because he bid her good-bye in a voice designed to carry, and she had to play along for the sake of the other houses. _It's amazing how much House loyalty there is in Slytherin. I never would have thought it so._

As for Riddle, he smiled warmly at Hermione by way of farewell, and she nodded curtly back. She didn't have any allies to back her at the moment, so a snub would only amuse him. His delight would grow when she eventually acknowledged him again, as she would have to in class for a teacher's sake. _Much better not to go down that road._

And Hermione departed the Great Hall, ignoring the black eyes which were emphatically not following her movement. Riddle didn't have to show that he was watching by anything as vulgar as his eyes boring into her back.

Hermione was going to her dormitory, but she wouldn't be there for long. Tonight she had the first Potions tutoring session with the first-years. And young Voldemort.

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A/N: I would really appreciate reader input on a matter of great importance to the plot of the story. The turning point is coming. I need to decide which way this is going to go. I don't want to give the details, because then there would be no suspense, but I will say that the choice is longer story, less believable, and a happy ending, shorter story, more believable, bittersweet ending, or fairly long story, semi-believable, sad ending. The first would be sweet, the second dramatic, and the third angsty. I had initially planned the first, but I would like to hear what you all think, so share your thoughts, please. I may not go the way you want me to, but I will take the advice under consideration.

I realise that the biology comparison might seem a little odd, but it seemed like it was the sort of parallel that would occur to Hermione, and I think it's a pretty nifty theory myself.

Sad as it is, the name Seraphina came into my head because of the Afflecks' new baby. I thought it was pretty, so...


	5. The Potions Session

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it, J. K. R. does. This story is just a tribute of sorts.

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Chapter 5

_In which two parted lovers miss each other, and Hermione spends an evening in the snake pit._

The potions lab was deserted. Slughorn, Riddle, and the first-years were still at dinner, so Hermione was entirely alone. This suited her fine. She had a splitting headache and she needed to take a few deep breaths before she was ready to deal with eleven-year olds.

She wished that she could use the time to prepare for the lesson, but she didn't know what they would be doing, because Riddle hadn't mentioned the tutoring since their first encounter. So she ended up wandering aimlessly around the room for ten minutes, finally stopping at a desk near the front. During class on Tuesday, Hermione had noted several differences in the lab, which she was now trying to look at more closely.

The room had been darker, in her time, with dingy walls and floor. Now the room was spotless. Small supply cabinets were set up all along the walls, instead of there being just one large one for every student. There _was_ a central cabinet, but it was labeled _Caveat is qui aperire_, and was the equivalent of the restricted section of the library. Only sixth and seventh year students could get into that, and only if they obtained Slughorn's permission to look there for ingredients to an especially advanced potion. Beside this, there was a large jar of spiders, which Hermione hadn't noticed on Tuesday. _Ron would have a fit._ Hermione was motionless for a moment, smiling a little at the memory of her arachnophobic friend.

Then Slughorn stepped in. Upon seeing her, he beamed. "Ah, Miss Grey, I've been waiting for a chance to talk to you."

Hermione smiled politely, but she was tempted to bang her head on the desk before her. She knew what was coming; she had had this discussion with Slughorn last year—make that fifty-four years in the future—her sixth year, anyway, and she knew that she would be most probably be forced to give the same answer she had previously, with even more reluctance, due to her ignorance that year of to what she had been agreeing. "What did you want to talk about, sir?"

Slughorn puffed himself up absurdly. "As you may be aware—" _I wish I weren't._ "—there is a select group of students whom I monitor carefully. This group consists of my most promising pupils. I call it the 'Slug Club,' and I wish to invite you to join."

"That's… very flattering." Hermione frantically racked her brain for a way out, but found none short of throwing up of the floor of the Potions room to avoid answering. That would only be a temporary solution in any case, since there was a snowball's chance in hell that Slughorn would let the matter drop before he got the response he wanted. "I would love to join."

Slughorn beamed at her and she smiled wanly back. "That's wonderful, my dear! Tom will be so pleased—he's a member, you know, and quite fond of you."

_Hah! _Hermione hoped that the redness her hysteria, which mounted with that last comment, brought to her face, would seem the innocent blush of a schoolgirl with a crush. _Let Slughorn think I like Riddle. Let everyone think I'm falling for his charms. So much the better for my scheming._

Slughorn bounced on the balls of his feet, his enormous belly jiggling as he gave her a knowing wink. "Well, m'dear, I must be off. Tom and the little kiddies should be along in a tick."

Hermione stared at him. _Did he just refer to the first-years as "little kiddies"? I didn't know they even said that in the forties!_ When Slughorn had waddled out the door, humming to himself, Hermione laughed at his peculiarity, but without any real mirth.

Riddle, in the corridor just outside, heard it. His eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down for just a second. **Does she ever really laugh? That facsimile doesn't count. Come to think of it, I've never seen her smile with any warmth, either.** **She's always so clinical, so detached. And that's only around the general populace. Around me and even Malfoy**—the latter typically drew girls out of their shells—**she's purely hateful.**

Riddle opened the door, went through, and greeted Hermione. She wished she didn't have to bother to respond, but she was going to make her plot work, and for that he had to think she liked him, so she gave an answering hello. Then she went straight to business.

"What are we going to be showing them?"

"Color-changing solution. They'll be testing it on spiders."

Hermione didn't speak to him for the next quarter of an hour, and she kept her back to him as she moved briskly around the classroom setting out supplies. Riddle noted that she clearly had the recipe memorized.

The first years entered and Hermione stiffened, dropping the vial in her hand. Riddle scanned the eighteen midgets, but could find nothing to elicit such a strong reaction. Hermione removed the mess with a shaking hand, fighting down her inner turmoil. _It's not him. It's not him. It's just one of them. Just a random Weasley._

Riddle saw the nervous glances Hermione kept shooting at a lanky Gryffindor, a Weasley. **What's so fascinating about him? **

Hermione couldn't take her eyes off the boy for more than a few seconds at a time. She had grown accustomed to seeing a Potter roaming the halls, but she didn't have much interaction with the first-years except in the Great hall, when she usually tried to avoid looking at the Gryffindor table because of the loneliness it induced. So this was the first time she'd encountered a Weasley here, and he looked just like Ron had the first day she saw him on the Hogwarts Express. _Merlin, he even has dirt on his nose._

Riddle was looking at her oddly, and Hermione wanted to kick herself. She forced her face into a semblance of calm. Strangely enough, he turned without a word and addressed the assembled students.

When Riddle had finished speaking, he told the students to go to it. He and Hermione sat in silence for five minutes, watching their charges. Then three pairs (Incidentally, four of the six students involved were Hufflepuffs.) made the most common mistake in the book, adding the Shrivelfig roots early, and Riddle and Hermione went over to help them, Hermione initially staying back, but coming forward to offer assistance when Riddle nodded his assent. _I feel like such a lapdog, waiting for his permission, but I have to maintain peaceful relations. _

The first years were practically whimpering as Riddle towered over them, which was no surprise, but what was, was that he seemed more patient than usual. He didn't mock any of the first-years and he didn't yell at them, he just quietly explained to them what they did wrong. He would have easily steered the students onto the right path had not one's hand shaken so badly at the proximity to the infamous Tom Riddle, that he added twice the right amount of lacewing flies, and had another, the red-head from before, not sliced his partner's hand open with his knife while he was watching Riddle leave, a suspicious look on his face.

Hermione understood that she was there largely to make sure the children weren't too terrified of their tutor to learn, but she couldn't resist going around and helping those who were having more trouble than their classmates. This included the Weasley boy, who had cut his partner's hand earlier, and his partner, a strawberry-blonde girl who seemed to be trying to give him the right instructions, only to be ignored.

"_No_, Barney," the girl said bossily. "That doesn't go in until after you stir. Here, let me."

Barney knocked her hand away. "Shove off," he said grumpily. His partner looked hurt. She closed her mouth and opened a book.

Hermione came over. "Hey," she said quietly. Barney looked up from his potion, which was now a murky brown instead of the vivid red that would indicate that the potion was progressing correctly.

"Yes?" he asked rudely. Hermione would have been irritated if she hadn't remembered that she was wearing the green and silver of an enemy. _Why couldn't I have been a Gryffindor again?_ She lamented for the thousandth time since her new sorting.

""She's right about the potion, you know. Maybe you should listen to her."

Barney looked mutinous. "Gretchen's a know-it-all."

Hermione took another look at the small blonde. Her pointy nose was buried deep in her book and she was ostensibly engrossed in the text, but Hermione knew the look, having sported it herself many times. She was listening intently. Hermione picked her next words carefully. "Perhaps she's trying to help you," she suggested.

Barney snorted and the resemblance to Ron grew stronger. "She just wants to look good."

Gretchen's head snapped up. "That's not true!"

Hermione spent the rest of the session with the pair, during which she discovered that Gretchen was a half-blood Ravenclaw—the only one from that house in the room—who was attending the tutoring voluntarily because she thought it would be interesting, that Barney hated Potions but loved Care of Magical Creatures, and that while Gretchen was greatly admired within her own house, the rest of her year despised her. The pair didn't volunteer that last bit of information, but it wasn't hard for Hermione to deduce it from her own experiences.

At quarter past eight, the potion was completed and Gretchen and Barney stomped away from each other without speaking, noses in the air, but their potion had turned their spider the desired shade of crimson, and Hermione suspected that each had learned something about the other, which was good enough for her.

Unbeknownst to Hermione, who had been focused in on the duo that reminded her so much of Ron and herself, Riddle had been keeping tabs on her. He had seen her go over to the pair and found it most interesting that she stayed there for the entire period, past the point when they needed her help. As the first years filed out, he called to her. "Grey."

Hermione, who had been about to leave, half-turned to face him. "Yes?"

"I'm sure you had the best intentions, but staying with one pair the whole night is not the most effective way to go about this."

Hermione wanted to say something cold in return, but Riddle was right. Hermione felt a twinge of scholarly guilt. It didn't matter that officially she didn't have to be efficient, since she wasn't there to help with that aspect of the lesson. She was going to help no matter what, she and Riddle both knew that her asking his permission earlier had been purely a courtesy, and that as such she should try and make efficient use of her time.

She nodded. "I know. It's just…" She didn't know where she was going with that, since she certainly wasn't about to explain to Voldemort about her relationship with Ron. "It won't happen again." She couldn't bring herself to feel really sorry for the time she had spent, and even if she could, she wouldn't apologize to Riddle, of all people, but she could promise that she wouldn't allow herself to wallow in memories when she was supposed to be acting as a tutor.

"It's alright." Again, the dazzling smile. _Does he really think that affects me, or does he know that it doesn't and graces me with it anyway because he hopes that that long-term exposure will have a cumulative effect?_

Riddle watched her. Her mind and her body were in the classroom with him, so he couldn't use the old cliché and say that her mind was miles (years, in this case, but he wasn't to know that) away, since she was responding to what he was saying, but her heart was gone. Her spirit was far, far away.

_Ron, playing chess that first year on their journey to the Philosopher's Stone. Ron, spitting slugs because he'd taken offense when Malfoy insulted her. Ron, letting her grip his hand tightly for support when Harry was being introduced to the intimidating Buckbeak. Ron in their fourth year, watching her after she emerged from the lake, surreptitiously making sure she wasn't going to catch her death of cold, though he'd never admit it. Ron, partnered with her for D.A., bearing it with good grace as she sent him rolling to the floor to avoid her hex. Ron, holding her after Dumbledore's funeral when Harry and Ginny were talking as lovers for the last time, letting her cry into his shoulder._

_And Ron, the day they'd destroyed the last horcrux save one, drawing her aside. Asking her a question that she'd been waiting to hear for years. Ron understanding, not judging her for her silent refusal. Ron being prepared to wait for her to do what she had to do, and was prepared also to help, in the same way Ginny would help Harry and maintain the façade of platonic feelings only for just a little while longer, as long as he needed And then, Ron saying good-bye as they parted in a downpour, he going off to Europe, she to London.  
_

Lord Voldemort was an accomplished Legilimens. Tom Riddle was less so, but the girl before him was looking into his eyes without realizing it, and she had let down the barriers that had been there since the first time he had seen her. He knew that once she snapped out of her reverie, her walls would go up again, but for the moment he could peruse her memories with relative freedom. He could not see much, and he could not dig into her mind, because she would be sure to notice. He was not so good at Legilimency as to push on when she was fighting against him, but what he saw was very interesting indeed.

**Wizard chess, slugs (that boy across from him has to be a Malfoy, but he's not Abraxas), a black-haired boy clambering onto a hippogriff (Where is she finding these things?), the lake (She said she'd never been here before, but this is in spring, and it's fall now.), jinxes flying overhead, a funeral for someone, a marble tomb, and then a ring, and her shaking her head no and then, the rain.**

Two things struck Riddle about these memories. One was that the same boy was in all of them. He had the look of a Weasley, but there were so many of them all over Britain that that didn't tell Riddle much. Far more intriguing was the fact that, with the exception of the first memory and the last, the memories were recognizably at Hogwarts. He had no time to dive back into Hermione's mind to see what else her thoughts would show, because she shook herself and her guard was up again. Someday, he would break through those gates and find out what she was hiding. The evidence that she had clearly spent a great deal of time at Hogwarts, probably as a student, directly contradicted her story that she had been privately tutored and had never been in this part of Scotland before.

Hermione didn't notice that Riddle had been piggybacking on her memories. She was just trying to fight back the tears. _Snap out of it, Hermione. I haven't cried since McGonagall went missing, and I'm not about to start now!_ And she didn't, but Riddle saw her struggle, and made a note of it. **Not pleasant memories, then? Or just not pleasant to remember now.**

Hermione blinked twice. "Did I space out?"

Riddle stared at her. "'Space out?'"

_Oops._ "I just went blank for a second. Look, we should go back to our tower now that our lesson's over."

"Curfew's not until ten. I was going to go the Slytherin common room, where I suspect they will be having a wizard chess tournament that should be most entertaining to observe. Come with me."

Hermione resented the command, and it was physically painful to smile. "No thanks, I have homework to do."

Riddle arched an eyebrow. "You have the same amount of homework as I do, and we both know that it will be easy. Malfoy will be disappointed if you don't come."

It wasn't true. Malfoy enjoyed Hermione's company, but he didn't seek it out. Any other boy using that line would have seemed to be trying to shift interest in the girl away from himself, but Hermione knew better than to think that. _He just wants to see if I'll pretend to be persuaded._ So she did_._ "Alright, then, for Malfoy's safe."

**So, no response to "wizard chess." Well, I didn't really expect one. I'll just have to keep trying.**

And keep trying he did. Riddle hadn't had any idea whether the Slytherins were having a chess tournament that night, but he had thought it likely, and they were indeed. As Riddle and Hermione sat chatting to spectators—though both would prefer to remain silent, each had a reason for being social—Riddle turned the topic ever so subtly, sometimes without mentioning it at all, but by setting it up and letting his minions follow their predictable lines of thought, to each of the general things Hermione had seen in her memories. Grey didn't seem disturbed at all.

Well, it had been a long shot. The topics were so general that he hadn't thought she would respond. And he did catch the barest ghost of a (real, for the first time in his acquaintance with her) smile when Dolohov, rooting for Ino Rosier, whose marriage to him had been arranged since birth and who was Abraxas Malfoy's opponent, suggested "making Malfoy eat slugs" to break his concentration.

At nine o'clock, Malfoy beat Rosier and their board was free. He offered it to Riddle, who inquired if Hermione would agree to serve as his opponent. After Ino's slightly less than well-meant warning that Hermione would be soundly beaten, and after Malfoy, who had sat down with Seraphina (They would have seemed nothing more than slight acquaintances to a Gryffindor, but Hermione understood that by Slytherin standards they were practically cooing at each other.), teasingly threatened to challenge Riddle to a duel if he was anything less than gentlemanly towards Miss Grey, the game began.

Hermione actually hated wizard chess, but Ron, who had insisted on instructing her in his favorite pastime save Quidditch, which she refused to learn, had taught her well, and by the end of his teaching her, she could beat him and anyone else she knew. At nine fifty, the game was still going on, and Hermione wanted to return to her dormitory, but Riddle told her that he had to patrol anyway, and that she would be perfectly fine with him. Hermione didn't like this at all, but as she still intended to work from within his cluster for as long as she was here, she agreed.

The game went on until ten thirty, at which point Riddle checkmated Hermione, who gave him a stiff, traditional bow, of which she was very proud. She'd been waiting for an opportunity to use it on him; it was a well-recognized gesture used by purebloods of both genders. _With my unSlytherin behavior, I need to remind them that I'm a pureblood. _It also had the added benefit of reminding the Slytherins that Tom was a half-blood as, instead of returning it, as any pureblood would have done instinctively, but which would have been seen as presumptuous coming form a half-blood, he tipped his head. The best part was that while this might not endear her to Riddle, he could hardly be angry with her, since as far as he knew, she had no idea he wasn't a pureblood. She knew that it was stupid, but it made her incredibly happy.

It was certainly hard to tell, seeing him with the other Slytherins. Tom's isolation was of his own making; the Slytherins were not disdainful of him or cruel to him because of his birth. He had earned his place as Slytherin prince, and his housemates knew it.

Then Riddle and Hermione departed the common room, Hermione making a note of where the door in the stone was so that she would be able to find it again. "Aren't you a little late to patrol? Will de Martineaux be upset?"

Riddle shook his head. "We patrol independently. She won't have any idea."

On there way around the first floor, they came across Moaning Myrtle on one of her rare trips around the castle. She ignored Hermione, which explained why she didn't recognize her in the future, batting her eyelashes at Tom, who flirted back. It made Hermione sick, knowing what Myrtle didn't: that she was making goo-goo eyes at her killer.

Then there was silence as they worked their way around the castle. Riddle caught the 1940's Potter sneaking around with his friend and gave them both detentions. Had he been looking at Hermione, he would have seen her dry smile. _More parallels. _The pair also discovered two couples out of bed. To Hermione's great surprise, Riddle punished the two equally, though one was two Slytherins and the other two Gryffindors.

They also encountered Professor McGonagall, who greeted the pair warmly and said nothing that indicated displeasure that Hermione was accompanying the Head Boy. Riddle happened to be glancing at Hermione in time to see her swallow a lump in her throat and smile at the professor. A rare smile that wasn't for show. It lit up her whole face and, in the same objective way that he knew himself to be attractive, he could see that Grey was beautiful. McGonagall didn't seem to notice the beam of light generated just for her, and Riddle was irrationally irritated.

It would have been faster to go through the back entrance to the common room, but the path of Riddle's patrol took them closer to the front way, so they went it. Charon and Riddle both extended a hand to help her onto the boat. She accepted the latter's, for political reasons. _How far am I prepared to go with this, "I heart Lord Voldemort" thing? _It wasn't a real question. She knew that she would go to the end of the earth if she thought it would help her friends, and every gesture, every unconscious action, had to be made conscious and point to her being drawn in by Riddle's charm.

_I don't need to seem in love with him, just trusting and credulous, but still wise enough to the ways of the world that he feels that I won't let his secrets slip._ She was increasingly aware that if she was stuck in the past and had to keep up the plan for a long period of time, she was facing almost certain death._ I'm walking a fine line between cunning and sheer idiocy, and it gets thinner all the time._

The boat was small, and Hermione was wedged up against Riddle. She had to resist the urge to elbow him or, more fun yet to imagine, push him over the side into the dark water, where the lost souls would almost certainly suck the life from him, giving them a few hours of life back and trapping him among them. She didn't do it because a) it probably wouldn't work and would only blow her cover, b) there was the whole no-changing-history-under-pain-of-a-very-strange-life-experience issue to be considered, and c) she would rather save the world _without_ going to Azkaban for murder, thanks.

So Hermione merely sat passively until they reached the other side of the Styx. She went ahead of Tom into the tunnel, but she felt a cold hand clamp on to her arm halfway through. She didn't understand why until a bubble of soft silvery light came into being from Tom's silent spell and she saw a blue-black snake curled up on the path. A step farther and she would have trodden on it.

"Is it venomous?"

The light cast strange shadows on his face so that she couldn't read his expression, but his tone was clearly amused. "No."

"Then why...?"

"I like snakes," he said, gently lifting the sleeping serpent and placing it down on the side of the road. He didn't use his magic, but did it manually. "She didn't ask to be stepped on."

_Of course, his concern wasn't for me but for the snake. _"She? How do you know?" _Do Parseltongues just know these things?_

"For one thing, a male would have different markings. For another, she's a friend of mine."

"Oh? Does she have a name.?"

"Yes, but it's in Parseltongue and it's not translatable."

_So he's open about his ability. That's good to know. It means I can't use my knowledge of it against him._ She injected a note of astonishment into her voice. "You're a Parseltongue?"

Riddle gave a curt nod.

"That's amazing! But surely you gave her a human name?"

Riddle sounded disgusted. "And what right have I to do that?"

"Well, if she's yours…"

"She's not mine. Snakes are sentient; owning one would be slavery in the same way that owning a human would be." _I hadn't noticed that you had a problem with that, O Master of the Imperius. Strange, that you value a snake's freedom more than that of a human. I suppose you always did treat Nagini better than the Death Eaters._ "If I have to mention her to a human, which doesn't happen often, I call her Leila, which is the closest I can get to the sound of the original."

_Not Nagini, thank Merlin._ Hermione wasn't sure she was ready to deal with even a young version of the vicious giant snake who was Voldemort's constant companion in her time. The snake was a different color and was probably too old to be Nagini, anyway, but markings change, and familiars can live a long time. "Can you say the original?"

In response Riddle hissed, sending shivers down Hermione's spine with the eerie sibilance, and the snake's true name did indeed sound like "Leila." He then went down the tunnel into the common room and walked over to his door where he gave her a last "Good night."

She wished him the same, not without considerable irony, and they went into their rooms. Her last thought before she went to sleep concerned how delightful it could be, in a perverse sort of way, to watch his natural disdain war with his need to be polite for his own gain. _But only Dumbledore and I notice the battle.

* * *

_

No one made any comment when Ron pulled his bundle near the entrance to the hollow and lay looking out over the valley. His head was all mixed-up.

Contrary to popular opinion, Ron did not have the emotional range of a teaspoon, and he missed Hermione more than he let on. She was the only reason he had kept fighting long past the time he was too exhausted to be reasonably expected to go on. The certain knowledge that if they lost the war, Hermione would die, and that if they won he might have a chance at a life with her beside him, kept him resisting the dark. Harry fought for his dead family and for Ginny; Ron fought for his living family and Hermione.

Hermione… _Hermione in first year, taking all the blame for the fight with the troll. Hermione running towards him at the feast, having just been released from her petrifaction. Hermione punching Malfoy for his causing Buckbeak's death. Hermione in the stands with him during the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, biting her lip with worry, chattering to him to calm herself. Hermione on the back of a thestral in fifth year, terrified of heights but clinging on for dear life because loyalty had made her come. Hermione in sixth year, shooting birds at him for his escapade with Lavender, because he'd been stupid and tried to make her jealous._

_Hermione after they'd destroyed the penultimate horcrux, glowing with her joy. Her eyes pleading with him to understand why they could not marry, why they couldn't have a life together just yet, but not asking him to wait because she was too selfless ever to do that. Telling him that she might die, or he might, and that she couldn't do this thing because she was scared._

_Hermione standing with him in the rain when they were about to leave each other for what they knew was probably the last time. Her lips were cold, her hair tangled, her robes muddy and frayed, and her cheek bloody, but she was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. And then they broke apart and she looked up at him, neither heeding the people around them, who were carefully averting their eyes. She turned on her heel and was gone with a pop and Harry was tugging him away._

Now, Ron wondered how he'd managed to let her go. Even knowing that separating was the right thing to do, for them and in the bigger picture, he felt that if he could do it over, he would go with her wherever she went, and hang the consequences.

Ron knew that he wouldn't get any sleep that night, so it didn't bother him when Kingsley shook him roughly awake at two am to tell him that it was his turn to stand watch. He stood like a statue where he had been lying awake moments before, and when his watch (a Muggle one, not the wizarding ones, which were useless for telling time) read four o'clock and it was time to wake Harry, he made no movement to do so. No reason for two people to remain awake, especially since Harry had been doing more than his share of the work these past weeks. He also didn't plan to rouse Ginny from her slumber for the six-to-eight shift. _I shouldn't have to. How can they sleep when Hermione might be lost in time forever?_ But no. He couldn't blame them. They loved Hermione, but they had confidence in her ability to find her way home from wherever and whenever she might be.

He had faith in her, too, a great deal, but some things were too great for even Hermione to handle. He just hoped this wasn't one of them.

A soft mist of rain began to fall, stinging his already-cool face and clouding his vision. Ron ignored this and stood still, staring out into the ashen light of early morning, waiting for the silhouette of a bird, any bird, large enough to carry a letter.

* * *

A/N: May I address a pet peeve? People who really love or hate a story but don't think it's worth the trouble to type a few lines of constructive criticism.

Over two hundred people have at least looked at this story. I have fewer than twenty reviews. That doesn't seem right to me. So, REVIEW. Review if you liked it. Review if you thought it was the best fic you've ever read. Review if you thought it was the worst fic you've ever read. Review if you thought it was mediocre. Review if you like the way the story is going. Review if you want me to take the story in a different direction. Review if you like my characters. Review if you want to say, "OMG, so-and-so would _never_ act like that." Review if you only get to the third line because something there turns you off.

Am I getting the point across?

If you favorited the story or put it on alert, thank you. Tell me why you liked it.

I'm not going to hold this story for ransom, because authors who do that drive me up the wall. It's a cheap way of getting a lot of reviews and it isn't fair to the readers. Instead, I'm just going to issue a little disclaimer. Any non-reviewing readers who think, "This isn't going the way I think it should," or "That's stupid, why did you do that?" are hereby treated to a maniacal laugh. The answer is, _You don't like this because you never took the time to tell me how to improve it._ Sucks for you.

On a less angry note, but in the same vein, I still need to know how y'all want the story to go. I have received only a few answers, and those conflicting. If I don't get more information after I post this chapter, I'm going to use the pick-one-out-of-a-hat-and-run-with-it method of selection. Or I may become so attached to one plotline that nothing you do or say will persuade me to change it. I'm already in danger of it.

Also, I would like to warn you that, no matter what, this is probably going to run 30+ chapters. Some of you may be happy about that, others might want a faster-moving story, so I'm sorry if this goes too slowly, but I'm trying to develop the characters gradually.

I'm also sorry if the Ron/Hermione thing got too repetitive. I was trying to show how much they missed each other and how close they had gotten over the years. Was it too sappy? This isn't a Ron/Hermione story, but I feel like I should be realistic. They were seriously in love at the end of HBP.

In answer to a reviewer's question, Riddle told Hermione that he was a Parseltongue because a) they don't know it was a basilisk, they think it's Hagrid's spider and b) it was intended to be one of the few secrets Tom shared with his minions. It makes them think he trusts them, makes them feel more like partners in his scheming than the pawns they truly are. Also, Parseltongue is something that Lord Voldemort will, Riddle hopes, always be known for, a reputation-builder, even if it has to stay among the snakes for the time being.

Lastly, a reviewer pointed out numerous grammar mistakes in this chapter, which I believe have been fixed. If you find any more, tell me, because I hate reading a story with such errors.


	6. The Flying Lesson

Disclaimer: JKR owns anything you recognize.

* * *

Chapter 6

_In which Hermione is a disgrace to the name of Slytherin._

The next few weeks passed very quickly for Hermione. During the day, she spent her free time researching time travel and rescuing Marie from Rosier. Tuesday and Thursday evenings, she acted as a Potions tutor, and was careful not to stay near Barney and Gretchen for more than a few minutes at a time. On other nights, she sat silently in the common room and did her homework, the only sound the scratching of her quill and Riddle's. Then, when they both had done the necessary assignments, they turned without any signal towards each other and began to talk.

Perhaps "argue" is a more accurate description than "talk." They did not discuss the weather or gossip or complain about their teachers. They simply picked up where they had left off the previous night in their ongoing debate, which touched on several subjects a night. It was a subdued debate (Riddle was still pretending goodwill and Hermione had to act like she believed his charade.), but intense nonetheless.

And so Hermione occupied herself for a while. Then, on a Friday, Hermione walked out of the locker rooms, where she had deposited her cloak, onto the Quidditch pitch. Thanks to the boy she was supposed to be shadowing, she had an advanced flying lesson every Friday.

She went straight over to a seat in the stands without even bothering to get a broom. Madam Hooch had finally declared her incorrigible and ordered her to keep out of the way. Hermione, who had been terrified of heights since her cousin Danny dangled her from a fifth-floor window when she was seven, was only too happy to comply.

The lesson started, and Hermione gave herself over to watching the lesson. _Quidditch is insufferably dull, but watching stunt flying is fascinating._ Madam Hooch demonstrated a complicated maneuver requiring the rider to hang upside down by their feet for a second of two, and Hermione almost covered her eyes.

For the first half of the lesson, Hooch had each student go through the motions in front of the class. One girl flew off her broom and would have been seriously injured if the Hufflepuff seeker hadn't dived and caught her shortly before she hit the ground, and almost everyone else had difficulty doing the trick. Only Riddle and Corentin, Slytherin Seeker and Chaser/Captain respectively, performed the feat with ease. Hooch exempted them from the supervised practice.

Riddle soared off into the clouds, but Corentin swooped down towards Hermione. He landed gracefully beside her, laid his broom down, and bowed as he had done at every meal since their first meeting, all in one motion. "Miss Grey, greetings." _Coming from anyone in my time, that would sound pretentious as hell, but from a pureblood in the forties, it's natural._

She smiled at him. "Hello, Mr, Harad." Hermione had been more than a little shocked to learn that Corentin was a Harad; their notoriety for being ill-tempered and clannish, famed for not getting along even with other purebloods, had continued into her time. But Corentin had been nothing but pleasant to her.

Now he took her hand and brushed his lips against it, his dark bangs, askew from flying, tickling her. This was not unusual for him, but Hermione wasn't comfortable with it. _It's just too strange, a pureblood kissing a mudblood's hand. If only he knew. _Still, she sat straight and smiled graciously, composedly, like a proper pureblood princess.

"Miss Grey, I have been meaning to ask a favor of you. I practice Qudditch every night on the pitch with or without the team, or, when another house has it reserved, near the lake. I would very much appreciate your company on those nights upon which you are available. I would like for you to act as a practice partner."

For a minute, Hermione was struck dumb. _What is he talking about? He knows how I fly._ Then it came to her. _Slytherins are chary of giving or asking for aid. He's trying to make an offer to teach me while seemingly extending a hand as one flyer to another! _It didn't matter that the Slytherins and her flying class would see through it. The former didn't gossip to the other houses, and the latter had created a little bubble of silence around their class. If their classmates wanted the rest of the school to think that they were the greatest Seeker for a hundred years, that was their prerogative. They were welcome to sustain the farce for as long as they could, which was usually until the next Quidditch tryouts.

_Will I even be able to get myself on a broom? It took all of my willpower to do so for Madam Hooch, and that ultimately went _so_ well. Not. _Hermione appeared to consider the demand on her social calendar, and then agreed with some reservations, which she kept under wraps. She didn't thank him, and he didn't say "You're welcome," but both were understood, and they smiled at each other. _I'm beginning to understand the way the Slytherins always smiled at each other in the hallways, like cats that had caught canaries. It always made us Gryffindors nervous, but now I think it had nothing to do with us. It was just how they acted._

"So, tonight at eight? Curfew isn't 'til eleven on Fridays and Saturdays, so tonight and tomorrow night, if you're free then, we should get in three hours of practice."

Hermione nodded her assent. Catching a glimpse of an emerald blur against the blue of the sky, she turned her head to see Riddle approaching fast. He landed in much the same fashion as Corentin, but with less flourish and minus the ending bow. _Again, the pureblood-halfblood gap._

"Harad, Miss Grey." He tipped his head and Corentin replied in kind.

Hermione gave Riddle the warmest smile she could muster considering her chilly conditions, both physical and mental. "Tom."

Riddle wondered how the informal address was meant. **If she's discovered that I am a half-blood, then that can only be construed as an insult, coming from someone who knows so little of me.** In much the same way that a master addressed a servant by his first name, old-fashioned purebloods were like to automatically call halfbloods and muggleborns by their first name. In rare cases, this was due to affection and had similar intentions to those of two adult muggles speaking on a first-name-basis, but considering that Hermione was not a close friend of his, this seemed unlikely. **She used to call me "Riddle." Why am I Tom all of a sudden?** Then again, it was always possible that she didn't know he was a halfblood. **No one speaks of it. I've made sure of that. She might be speaking as a pureblood would to an acquaintance of equal rank. **Riddle repressed the urge to rub his temples. Pureblood customs gave him a headache.

Hermione saw the momentary glint in his eyes that she had begun to associate with his pondering something. _Good. Let him wonder how much I've heard about him. Eventually someone will let it slip about his birth, and I'll act surprised. Then, I'll be just a tiny bit chillier to him for a few days, but that will fade. End of topic._

Corentin coughed discreetly. "Miss Grey. The lesson is over."

Hermione snapped back and blushed a little. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry. I was lost in thought for a moment."

Corentin smiled at her. "Allow me to replace my broom in the closet. Then I will escort you to lunch."

"That would be love—" Hermione heard the sound of a clearing throat.

Abraxas Malfoy was at her service. "No need to make the lady wait for you to get ready. I will take her."

Hermione did her best not to show her annoyance. "Thank you, but it will be no trouble to wait. I have to get my cloak, anyway." Malfoy held it up. _I just hope he got a girl to fetch it for him. Accio wouldn't have worked, considering the charms around the various gender-segregated areas of Hogwarts. Too many guys have performed _Accio_ on some poor girls' bras._

Corentin bowed again and turned to leave, right on Riddle's footsteps. Hermione glanced at Malfoy and was shocked to find his handsome face contorted into a scowl. She had noticed before that relationships between the Malfoy scion and the Harad were strained, but she didn't understand why. As far as she knew, there was no family feud.

She filed that piece of intrigue in her mental file marked "Interesting" and walked back to the castle.

* * *

That night, Hermione strode out onto the pitch, shivering. Corentin was waiting with two Silver Arrows, of which he was clearly very proud. Hermione tried to seem impressed by the broom's speed, which was nothing compared to that of Harry's Firebolt, or indeed, Ron's Cleansweep. _Well, it's for the best. I'd probably fall off a faster broom. _

Hermione accepted the broom tentatively, and Corentin held out a hand for her to hold for balance while she climbed on. She didn't take it. He waited a minute. "Is something wrong?"

Hermione swallowed. "I'm afraid of heights."

She was afraid to look at Corentin, afraid that he would be laughing at her, or worse, that he would echo Dolohov's conviction that girls were rubbish flyers, and that there would never be any female Quidditch players. There were several girls in the advanced flying class, but she didn't know of any who were on their house teams.

Corentin didn't look like he was amused at her expense, or that he was having sexist thoughts. He just looked thoughtful. "Wait here for a second." He took Hermione's broom and jogged over to the shed, returning empty-handed.

"Umm…?"

"I thought that you just hadn't had an opportunity to fly before, being homeschooled, but that is clearly not the case. We're going to spend tonight getting you more comfortable on a broom. You will be flying behind me." He said this like the Quidditch captain he was, authoritatively, but then he looked almost bashful. "If that's alright with you, of course." _Why is he asking me that? Of course it is… Oh. Yeah, yeah, yeah, the conservative forties purebloods, diffident, sweet young girls who weren't comfortable near a guy, etcetera, etcetera. _The idea almost made her snort. She had spent too long with boys as her best friends to be shy around a member of the opposite sex.

"It's fine with me."

Corentin looked shocked and eyed her strangely, as though he would have thought more of her had she refused, but he was a still a professional, and his desire to make the world a better place by the conversion of a massive disaster on the pitch into a fantastic flyer won out over his pureblood priggishness. He helped her onto the broom, and when she was hovering with the tips of her toes barely touching the ground, he hopped on in front of her, somehow managing not to land on her hands, which were clutching the immobile wood for dear life. _He makes it look so easy. _She had seen his graceful almost-leap off the ground, and she was suitably impressed.

They started off very slowly. Hermione gingerly placed her hands on either side of Corentin's waist, and he kicked off. They only went about ten feet up at first, Corentin gradually increasing the broom's height as Hermione felt comfortable. It was just straight flying. Up ten feet, hover, and give Hermione a chance to get oriented. She nearly fell off once, about a hundred feet up, when she made the mistake of looking down as he headed higher. Only Corentin's reaching back to steady her kept her on the broom. When he realized that he had had to touch her waist to help her, he jerked back around like he'd been stung. Hermione held on a little tighter after that.

Eventually, Corentin started going faster and higher, until they were circling the pitch, the broom rising and falling with the wind, something Corentin had initially made a conscious effort to prevent. Finally, he seemed to judge that it was time to go inside. He sped downwards at an alarming rate, and Hermione bit back a scream, but the landing was smooth.

Clambering onto the ground, Hermione discovered that getting off a broom was much like making the transition from a boat to land. Her legs were weak and acted more like they were made of noodles than of bone. Corentin offered to take her back to the Heads' Common Room, but she suspected that it was long past curfew, and she told him to go straight back to the dungeons. He obliged her.

It would be nice, in a cliché sort of way, to say that she was exhilarated, that she'd found her calling on a broomstick, the way Harry had in first year, but she wasn't and she hadn't. She was tired and cold, and she knew she had been lucky not to slip from the broom and fall to her death. So it was a weary, distracted Hermione who parted with Mr. Harad in the Entrance Hall and quietly made her way back up to her Common room alone.

She almost made it, too. If she had been fully assimilated into her new house, and accustomed to being on the watch, or had she taken Moody completely seriously when he waxed eloquent on "constant vigilance," she might have arrived safely at her destination. As it was, she didn't stand a snowball's chance in Hell, especially when one factors in her wobbly legs and fatigue.

A stocky Slytherin girl (a fifth year?) stepped out of a niche to Hermione's left. Hermione gave her a curt nod—_It's almost twelve-thirty and she should be in bed, but I shouldn't be out either, and anyway, rounding up students isn't my job_—and swerved to the right to avoid her. Her heart sank into her stomach when she found Rosier blocking her path. She knew without looking that there would be a figure in the shadows behind her. She had seen them quickly enough that they no longer had the element of surprise, but she was still surrounded.

_How did this happen? I trained for years to prevent this!_ She was angry with herself, but not truly surprised. Her mistake was glaringly obvious, and she could have killed herself, except that she was busy trying to work out how to stay alive. _I made the mistake of thinking that I was safe here, that no one here would have cause to hate Hermione Granger. _That was true, since she hadn't been born yet, but Ino, whose favorite quarry, de Martineaux, had been taken out of reach, and who was irked that her master, Tom, had not stepped in to support her, had plenty of reason to hate Hermione Grey.

Hermione smiled. "Rosier. Good to see you." Her training kicked in, and she kicked backwards at exactly the right moment, judging by the flash of triumph in Rosier's eyes, and connected with solid flesh. She heard a thud as the goon hit the floor. _Hah! You'll have to get up earlier than that to get the jump on _me_. _"Should you be out this late?" The other crony fell.

Suddenly there was a wand at her head, and Adalric Dodgewood stepped out of the shadows. "I think that if any questions are to be asked, _we_ will be doing the asking."

_Shit. I missed one. _"Adalric too. This is just getting to be a regular snake pit."

"Shut up." Rosier stepped forward and slapped her. The sadistic glee on her face reminded Hermione of Bellatrix. But no, there was a major difference. _Bellatrix was bad at restraining herself; Rosier has a bit more self-control. It's not perfect, but she wouldn't attack someone in front of a thousand authority figures, whereas Bellatrix wouldn't hesitate, and if she were exposed, she would at least make some sort of attempt to deny everything, unlike Bellatrix. _Still, the pair were comparable by virtue of their insanity.

"Bet you thought you were untouchable, didn't you, Grey? Thought that Tom would help you out? Do you see him around now?" Hermione suspected that the queries had been meant to be rhetorical, and remained silent. "Oh, no. My Lord appreciates my service_?_ What have _you_ done for him, that you relied on his goodwill to let you going around acting like you own the place?"

Again, Hermione decided that no answer was expected or desired. She just arched an eyebrow, silently contemplating all the times Riddle had passively watched as Ino locked heads with Hermione. He had never helped Hermione, but then, he had never seemed to be too concerned for Ino, either.

Hermione now focused on finding a way to draw her wand without attracting Adalric or Ino's notice. _This is why I need to learn wandless and silent magic. _She had never been able to do either, but it really wasn't for lack of trying. She had applied herself wholeheartedly, fanatically following the detailed instructions of Lupin and Kingsley, but she just didn't seem to have the knack. It was extremely frustrating, and at the moment, depending on how she handled the volatile situation into which she had cluelessly walked, it could prove deadly. Hogwarts: A History detailed several accounts of the nasty fates of those Slytherins who had displeased the most powerful faction of that house.

One case in particular had stuck in her mind. Anna Wiggins had been jealous of Gretel Nabokov, whose boyfriend, Anna's ex, had just proposed to her. Gretel Nabokov went missing in mid-March. A few days later, a sixth-year Care of Magical Creatures student used Gillyweed to swim deep into the lake for an assignment on a type of fish which had been affected by magic leaking. A merman appeared and led him to Gretel's body, which the merpeople had kept in a bubble of air in one of their caves. The corpse was intact, and the clothes were there, but they never did find the engagement ring that Gretel had been wont to display so proudly.

This example and others brought home to Hermione that while not all Slytherins were bad, the ones who were were cunning enough to get away with murder. Rosier, though slow in other mental areas, was no exception.

Hermione had just figured out a way to get her wand into her hand with minimal movement, and groped about for it, when Adalric waved it in front of her face.

"Looking for something?" _Not good. Very, very not good._ "Tell me, did they teach you wandless magic at that home school of yours?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"You know, I wager you don't know how to do it at all. If you did, you would already have used it. Which means… You are now at our mercy. This should be most amusing."

_I don't think so._ Hermione lashed out with her right leg, but Adalric caught it and used it to flip her backwards into the arms of a stocky boy, the side of whose head, Hermione noticed dazedly, was sticky with blood from hitting the stone floor, courtesy of Hermione's hind kick. She tried valiantly to break free, but his grip was like iron.

Adalric looked to Ino, who motioned that the boy should keep holding Hermione. Then, "Crucio!"

Hermione's insides were on fire. She opened her mouth in a silent scream; Rosier or Dodgewood had put up a Silencing charm. That was the last thing she realized before she slipped into unconsciousness.

Adalric must have used a Reviving charm almost immediately, because Hermione opened her eyes to find herself in the exact same position, and her insides were still burning from the effect of the torture.

Ino waved a hand languidly at her newly wakened prisoner. "I have to see a fifth-year about an owl. Do as you like. It's boring, torturing someone who caves that easily. Just kill her after you've had your fun. Oh, and I'll expect your memories in my pensieve tomorrow. I'll want to see that again and again."

Hermione was under no illusions as to what was meant by "as you like" and "fun." "Isn't that kind of sick, authorizing your fiancé to rape someone?" It was common knowledge among the Slytherins that the Dodgewood-Rosier alliance had been planned for years.

Ino sneered. "He'll come back to me. It's not even like he's having an affair. Besides, it's worth it to know you're suffering." And Ino strutted away.

Adalric approached, throwing aside his robes. Hermione struggled harder than before.

A little ways away, two young men were creeping along the corridor under Disillusionment charms, which wouldn't stand up to close inspection, but would suffice to deceive anyone who happened to glance in their direction.

Suddenly, the pair stopped dead at the sight before them. The shorter of the boys looked at the bushy-haired girl and sighed. "She really is a disgrace to the name of Slytherin. She must not have expected the ambush."

**A disgrace to the name of Slytherin indeed. In all of the memories that I saw, she was wearing red and gold. At Hogwarts, for most of them. No true Slytherin would do that.** Riddle had been musing on this point and others since that first Potions tutoring session. "Yes. Perhaps we will deliver to her a lecture on this subject, but later. At the moment, Adalric is getting quite close to her, and she seems to be upset about it."

Malfoy nodded, and the boys moved in unison.

Hermione was thinking that she should have slept with Ron while she had the chance, and that she would certainly never see him again. This particular fatalistic, though not unfoundedly so, line of thought was interrupted by a golden light streaking through the air. Adalric jumped and clutched at his wand arm, which was at a funny angle. He mouthed words, apparently trying to perform wandless magic, but gradually he sank to the ground under an invisible weight.

Hermione saw two boys appearing, seemingly out of thin air, and then a blow from her captor knocked her out.

* * *

A/N: This story is still T, so nothing's going to be too graphic. Hence I did not describe the attempted rape. There may be character death, but I'm not going to go into any gory details. Let me put it this way. Generally speaking, if a graphic description wouldn't appear in a real HP book, it probably won't appear here.

I'm not going to repeat my spiel from last chapter. I'm just going to say, 555 views at last count, and 38 reviews? Come on, people.

Yes, this chapter is kind of short, but I tried it several ways, and this is how it came out. I've actually had it finished for a while, but I kept it here, since I was trying to make it longer. Sed non potui.


	7. The Room of Necessity

Disclaimer: JKR owns anything you recognize.

* * *

Chapter 7

_In which Hermione encounters something she isn't meant to see._

Hermione awoke in an unfamiliar bed. Instead of being a lush emerald green, as the hangings on her bed were, the sheets and canopy of this bed were slate grey. These somber furnishings had been drawn closed, giving Hermione the sensation of being wrapped in a cocoon.

Having observed this, Hermione ran a quick check. She wasn't missing any body parts, and she was wearing all of her clothes, excepting her cloak, which covered nothing essential and hadn't been expensive. She had others.

She sat up slowly and carefully, trying not to move her head unduly, since it seemed that it was being stabbed repeatedly with long needles. A quick foray with her hand to the back of her skull found that there was no blood. Despite her initial disorientation, caused by a new locale, Hermione almost instantly recalled the events of last night, but she didn't jump up to flee, and she wasn't scared. She didn't know what had happened to her, but someone had stopped Adalric before he got too far, and there wasn't much that could happen to her now that would be worse than what he had been planning.

So Hermione stayed in bed until the sharp pain in her head dimmed to a dull, constant throb, and then got up, swinging her feet onto the ground and jerking the hangings back in one smooth motion. What she saw beside her bed startled her into freezing. Tom Riddle was sprawled on the only other piece of furniture in the room; a couch of the same leaden grey as the bed sheets, over the back of which was draped her cloak. He had to be asleep, but he looked dead. His chest moved up and down only very slightly, and his usually pale face was ashen. She would have pegged him for a light sleeper, but he didn't stir as she walked towards him.

He wasn't wearing a tie, and the top button of his white shirt was undone. Seeing him like this made her vaguely uncomfortable; it felt odd to be seeing him in such an informal position.

She dithered for a moment, unable to decide whether to wake him. She eventually determined to wait for half an hour, and if by the end of that time he had not yet awoken, she would rouse him herself. She perched on one end of the couch, beside his feet, and tried to think of where she was. She didn't recognize the place, and it made her uncomfortable. She finally gave up and decided that rather than waking Riddle, she would leave through the heavy metal door. Rising carefully so as not to disturb the slumbering Riddle, and collecting her cloak, she tiptoed over to the egress. Her hand on the icy cold knob, she turned for a last look at Riddle, and saw something that she had failed to notice before.

Riddle's sleeves were rolled up—another shocking informality—leaving his arms bare to the elbow. On the inside of his arm was a vivid black mark, one that Hermione knew well. She knew that that mark, so fresh from recent use, was just another reason for her to get as far from Tom Riddle as humanly possible, but she was intrigued. _No one mentioned Voldemort having his own Dark Mark. I mean, I suppose it would make sense, else how could he call them, but…_ _I always assumed that that mark was just for his servants._ Clearly her assumption had been wrong.

She felt herself drawn towards the vivid skull and snake, in a way bizarrely reminiscent of Cupid and Psyche. _Except that we aren't lovers, and instead of his being a god suspected of being a monster, he is a monster disguised as a god._ _Let's hope that no wax drips on his arm; getting caught staring at his Mark would be very bad._

As she drew near, Riddle's eyelids fluttered. When she was a few feet away, his eyes snapped open and held her where she stood. Neither of them spoke for a minute. Hermione was damned if she would break the silence, and Riddle was wondering why Grey had such an odd look on his face. Realizing that his sleeves were rolled up, he quickly tugged them down, hoping that she hadn't seen his tattoo and trying to appear as though his motions were casual. **I doubt she saw it, but even if she did, I can't imagine that she would know the significance.**

Hermione gave up on the silence game. "Where are we?"

Riddle shrugged. "It doesn't have a name. I call it the Room of Necessity." Hermione stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending and then, _Of course. The Room of Requirement. Riddle doesn't seem to be big on alliteration._ Riddle continued, "Not many people know of it. I wouldn't have brought you here, but it seemed prudent to keep the recent unfortunate dissention in the Slytherin ranks quiet. House solidarity and such. So it couldn't be the Hospital Wing. Our room was out, because the paintings talk. Even if we could convince them not to gossip to any willing ears among the students, they would undoubtedly tell Dumbledore."

Hermione blinked. "Not Dippet?"

Riddle snorted. "Your reputation for being observant seems to have been misleading, Miss Grey. Surely you've noticed that Dippet is a fool, that no one tells him anything if he or she can help it?

"Also, I had to Obliviate Malfoy. He thinks he went straight to the common room last night, after seeing me enter my room." _Oh, so Malfoy helped me, too. Yay. If I had to pick two people to whom to owe my life, I would definitely pick them._

"So, here was the only feasible alternative to sauntering off and leaving you sprawled on the floor." Riddle stopped speaking and looked at her, apparently expecting a response. Hermione just gaped at him, thoughts in a whirl. He had told her a lot without giving her any real information, except that he and Malfoy had helped her.

_It makes sense that he Obliviated Malfoy. Abraxas clearly likes Riddle, trusts him and so on, but Dumbledore told Harry that Riddle always was independent. I suppose he doesn't think Abraxas would keep quiet._

Hermione wasn't upset that Riddle had modified Abraxas' memory; if anything she was relieved. _As undesirable as having it be Riddle who saved me from rape and torture_—it never occurred to Hermione to doubt that Riddle had been her savior, it was the only thing that made sense in light of the present situation—_Malfoy's knowing about it would be worse in some ways._ Malfoy would pity her, but Riddle, being a half-blood and a selfish bastard, was not enough of a gentleman to feel sorry for her. _He probably only considers his saving me as a good thing in that it puts me in a position of owing him my life._

This led Hermione onto a new train of thought. What if Riddle had orchestrated the attack with exactly that in mind? _He knows I have talent, and he's been looking to get me on his side. What if he had them ambush me so that he could save me._

She rejected this idea almost immediately. For one thing, it implied that Riddle trusted his minions enough to involve them in his plots, and it had just been proven that he trusted nobody. _But what if they thought he actually wanted me dead?_ No. Then they would have said something about doing it for Riddle.

For another thing, if Riddle had intended for Hermione to be attacked, he would now be playing up his role as the concerned, caring friend. _He doesn't know the extent of my distrust. He might still think he could win me over. _Actually, it surprised her that Riddle wasn't trying that routine anyway.

It wasn't that Riddle hadn't considered it. He had. Very seriously, in fact. In the end, however, he had come to the conclusion that it would scare Grey further away from him, put her at an even greater distance. She had already demonstrated that she had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out insincerity. **She and Dumbledore both.** This was particularly interesting since she herself seemed always to be wearing a mask.

He had seen that mask stripped away on a very few occasions, when she seemed to be staring at something in the distance. Sometimes, when she didn't know he was near, he caught a glimpse of that same red-haired boy, always mingled with a feeling of affection. Lately, those images had been further and further apart, and the kindly disposition towards the boy within them had been more and more vague. But last night, the boy had come through loud and clear, in that last moment before Riddle cast his spell. She had been fighting for her life, and she had been projecting the redhead's face to every Legilimens in range. That time, though, there had been a different emotion attached to the boy: regret. Riddle could interpret that feeling perfectly well in context, and it had been then that Tom had decided that Dodgewood would receive more than a warning for what he had tried to do.

Hermione had been correct: Tom Riddle did not understand the feeling of pity. He had never experienced it towards others, and he loathed it when it was directed towards him. But he _was_ familiar with empathy. To stay on top of a chaotic system like Slytherin house, one has to be able to identify with those around you. And he had felt just a tiniest bit of the sorrow Hermione had experienced when thinking of that awkward, gangly adolescent who had to be far, far away.

Though Riddle couldn't know it, Hermione's barriers being solidly up, Hermione had just been lost in thoughts of that selfsame boy, though not in a romantic capacity. Ron and Harry… Her best friends. It took her a while to shake off her daze and respond to what Riddle had said.

"Yes, I see… It makes sense that you took me here. Thank you. May I leave?"

"You may not want to leave just yet."

"Why not?"

Riddle held up her wand. "Oh, thank you." He extended it to her, and she took it gratefully. "Riddle…"

"Yes, Grey?" Neither one of them was bothering with formalities at the moment; her thanks had only been given because they were deserved, and they were not using honorifics.

"Where is he?"

Riddle's expression did not change. "You will not see him again."

She swallowed hard. "Is he…?" She couldn't bring herself to finish the question. _Dodgewood is, or was, loathsome, but… Oh, please let him be alive._ Riddle didn't answer her question, but she knew what he wasn't saying. "What about Rosier? And those others?"

"The others have their orders. And Ino… She will not bother you again." _Wow, he's perfected the ominous undertones to an apparently neutral voice._

_Um… Thank you?_ Hermione really wasn't sure how to reply to Riddle's unorthodox and unwonted protection. On the one hand, he had saved her life and had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to make sure that she was not bothered by rumors and was not seen as weak, a matter of great importance in Slytherin house. On the other hand, he certainly hadn't saved her out of the goodness of his heart, and he had only Obliviated Malfoy so that he himself couldn't be linked to Dodgewood's disappearance—Hermione knew that Riddle wouldn't be stupid enough to leave a body lying around.

She finally settled for mumbling, "Oh," and turning to leave. She didn't hear Riddle get up, but the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she knew he was behind her. Ignoring his presence, she twisted the metal doorknob and stepped out into the corridor. She seemed to have been correct in assuming that Riddle had taken her to the Room of Requirement.

The hall was flooded with light from all directions, and she wondered at the time. Casting her eyes about for something to give her a hint as to the time of day, she saw a small clock resting on top of a cupboard near the end of the hall. Closer inspection revealed that it was twelve minutes past eight a.m., meaning that the students would be at breakfast. Hermione sagged with relief. She hadn't missed any class. Then reality set in, and she remembered that it was Saturday: she wouldn't have missed class anyway. But something occurred to her.

"Riddle," she said suddenly. "How will you explain why we're late? Especially since you said that Malfoy thinks he went back to the common room and you to your room."

Riddle almost smirked. Seeing the distress on her face, he added, "The other students won't think anything odd of my coming in late. I often wander about the castle before breakfast with some of my associates."

Hermione having seen Riddle late to breakfast many times before, she knew this to be an entirely plausible excuse, though the associates concerned had always been male before. _Oh god, the entire female population of Hogwarts is going to lynch me._

"If Malfoy makes one comment…" But she knew he wouldn't. For all of his flaws, Malfoy was a gentleman to the bone, as well as being loyal to Riddle. If the one didn't give him reason to maintain a respectful silence on the topic of Riddle's sex life, the other would. Dolohov would also keep quiet, though more out of apathy than for any more admirable reason.

Riddle didn't even bother to dignify her vague threat with a reply. He turned and walked on the direction of the entrance hall. Hermione took a moment to clean the dirt and wear from her soiled clothes, which were so nondescript that no one would recall her having been wearing them yesterday, and followed him.

Riddle listened to Hermione's soft footfalls behind him and thought. She had seemed very comfortable with the Room of Necessity, not even blinking when the door faded back into the wall. This could, of course, be explained by the fact that she couldn't know how rare such a room was in Hogwarts, and by her homeschooling. Still, it was strange.

Riddle wasn't the only one with a tendency to suspect everything, worthy of close scrutiny or no. While Riddle was wondering about Hermione's ease with the relatively unfamiliar castle, Hermione was thinking about why he had been out so late last night.

_It was far too late even to be explained by his patrol duties. If I ask him, he'll spew some story about how he couldn't sleep or how he and Malfoy were having a heart-to-heart. _

_Why do I find those scenarios so implausible? It couldn't be because Riddle is destined to kill my parents and those of my friend. It couldn't be that he will reduce me and mine to fugitives, hiding from a corrupt government controlled by pureblood fanatics. It couldn't be that said purebloods will be led by a hypocritical halfblood, a.k.a. Riddle, who hides his background. It couldn't be that even as Tom Riddle, he's killed not the four people I thought he had, but at least five. No, no. It must be that I'm paranoid._

Riddle, turned back to look at Hermione, who had made no attempt to step through the door he had opened for her, and saw that she was wearing quite a peculiar expression, but he made no attempt to invade Hermione's mind: he didn't need to. While he hadn't known Hermione for long, he could already recognize some of her more distinctive expressions. The one she wore right now typically appeared before she corrected a fallacy in a student's theory or when she was crusading for Muggles' rights in Muggle Studies. It also manifested itself when she was remaining carefully silent so as not to explode. She wore that face quite often around him, and he knew it to signify an internal rant.

He moved subtly so that his face was in her line of sight, causing her to come back to herself. She nodded curtly in acknowledgment of his courtesy and stepped through the huge wooden door.

Anyone can bring a room to a stunned silence. Even just an incredibly tacky outfit, not too hard to assemble, can bring a room to quiet, immediately followed by shocked whispers. Certain celebrities also inspire this sort of reaction, and it was this sort of thing that Tom Riddle expected a few times a week, when he came in late or early or with an uncharacteristic look on his face. But it takes a special type of entry, as well as a special sort of person entering, to induce forced chatter, uneasy talking intended to ensure that the object of the room's attention does not feel the surveillance. It was this that Miss Grey received when she entered with the Head Boy trailing her, rather than walking slightly ahead of his companion, as was his wont.

Three-fourths of the room broke into strained chitchat about trivial matters. At the Gryffindor table, one Muggleborn who had transferred late to Hogwarts, having lived in America until he was fourteen, and who had retained some of the culture from his place of birth, murmured to his neighbor, "So, how 'bout them Yanks?" The latter boy, also a Muggleborn, though an Englishman through and through, felt obliged to reply as though the query had been serious, giving rise to a discussion of the merits of certain sports and sports teams. The conversation terminated fifteen minutes later with a disagreement concerning the relative merits of baseball and cricket, and the resulting feud brought a premature end to what could have been a beautiful friendship.

Meanwhile, unaware of the hostility for which she was indirectly responsible, Hermione continued towards the Slytherin table, wishing for any alternative. But unfortunately, or at least it seemed unfortunate at the time, the earth did not swallow her up. Nor did the Gryffindors rise up en masse, come over, and request her presence at their table. Her last hope was dashed as she failed to wake up, put a hand to her heart, and say, "Thank goodness it was only a dream." In short, Hermione was indubitably stuck in an uncomfortable situation.

Hermione had been trying not to look at the student body as she progressed through the hall, keeping her eyes firmly on Malfoy and Dolohov, who seemed to have saved two places near the head of the table, to which Riddle and Hermione's little group had gravitated over the past few weeks. She made her way over to them as quickly as she could without running. She had the brief thought that if Riddle hadn't been there, she would have broken into a sprint, but that was ridiculous. If it weren't for Riddle, she would be sitting down alone at the foot of the table, and no one would be paying her the least bit of attention. _Gee, thanks, Riddle._ Scratch that. She could hardly resent this when the alternative was being dead in some ditch somewhere.

Inexplicably, having Riddle beside her was almost comforting. Not that he was offering her any moral support—that was unquestionably not Riddle's cup of tea—but Hermione could feel the weight of his presence. His infamy might have been the reason for her being thrust into the Hogwarts spotlight by association, but it was also the reason that no one was harassing her. Riddle had a reputation for being charming, brilliant, and dangerous, and the students at least, if not the teachers, knew how protective Riddle could be of those temporarily in his favor.

Riddle himself would not have described the affair that way. Later, when Leila asked him about the human girl in whom he seemed to have taken an interest, he would explain that in a few short weeks he had seen talent to rival his own, and that he had decided that it would be better to channel it for his purposes than it would be to eliminate her and let the magic go to waste or to ignore her and risk her deciding to challenge him. He had seen it in her eyes, it could happen.

Hermione repressed the urge to reach for Ron's hand. _You would think that since we've been separated, I would have gotten over his absence, but… _Somehow, it didn't seem likely that she would ever stop missing him when he wasn't with her, that she would ever grope for someone else's hand in the dark or when she was going through something terrifying.

**There he is again, the Weasley. That's very interesting. She seems to be not merely passively lowering her barriers, but also actively sending out his image. She did that last night as well. Why?** It was like she was hoping that her friend would hear her, but surely she couldn't be that irrational, could she? **Of course she could. **

It was of course possible that she didn't know what she was doing—she had on several occasions proven herself to be less than perfectly in control of her purely mental magic—but it didn't seem likely. She had to be using an incredible amount of energy to do that. **It would be much the worse for her if she is doing this unintentionally. I could hardly trust someone thus handicapped with small tasks, and I would most certainly be unable to reveal any secrets to her, for fear that she would broadcast them to anyone with the minimal amount of Legilimency training.**

Riddle idly wondered what Dumbledore thought of the girl's sending out personal images. But then he had probably blocked them easily. Tom would have done, but he wanted to get close to Grey, and these flashes of insight might help. **Of course, as long as she retains an unhealthy fixation on that pimply, carrot-headed clod, she won't tell me anything helpful.**

And Riddle's thoughts turned to other areas. Hermione's train of thought, however, refused to be derailed, though she tried mightily. While truly clueless as to the things she was unintentionally revealing to her nemesis, she wished to think of happier things. An attempt to casually sweep the hall failed to turn her mind to happier topics.

Adalric and Ino were noticeably absent. Hermione turned to Malfoy. "Abraxas, where's Ino Rosier?" She tried to ignore Riddle, who was apparently talking to Corentin, but who, she knew, was listening to the exchange.

He looked surprised. "Haven't you heard?" She almost didn't catch his glance between her and Riddle. "No, I suppose you wouldn't have, if you were out walking."

Hermione realized that her perspective had changed greatly. Had she not been among the Slytherins this past month or so, she would have thought his tone perfectly bland, but speaking from an insider's point-of-view, his manner was laden down with sarcasm.

"She got into a fight with Adalric. He attacked her and then ran off. She got hit with a pretty nasty curse, dark magic. She's in the Hospital Wing."

"And Dodgewood?"

Malfoy's expression turned grim. "They still haven't found him. You know, I never liked him, but… I never thought he was a murderer."

Hermione didn't have to feign surprise. "A murderer?"

Malfoy looked queasy. "If the spell had been an inch higher, it would have killed her."

"How do you know?" Seraphina asked curiously.

"I was in there for a Dreamless Sleep potion—Kylie was too shy to ask for one for herself—" In spite of herself, Hermione almost smiled at the thought of the tiny second-year, who worshipped her big brother. "—and I overheard Madame Greenley telling Dippet."

"I hope she's alright," Seraphina said worriedly.

Hermione was amazed at Seraphina's well-wishing Rosier, who had never seemed to take much notice of her. _She's ridiculously compassionate. It doesn't suit a real Slytherin._

Hearing what she had just thought, Hermione choked on her pumpkin juice, and had to wave a concerned Seraphina away.

* * *

The gold engraved plaque on the door read _Minister for Magic_, but its current inhabitant answered to a very different title. The office itself had been elegant once, but now it could more accurately be described as sinister. The minister's armchair was facing away from the door, positioned so that its occupant might stare into the fireplace, though that furnishing was at the moment devoid of flames. The other chair, a more modest wooden affair, was lying on its side, a huge snake coiled over it. The portraits on the walls were hanging askew, and instead of adding life to the room, they seemed to suck it out. This was largely due to their vacancy; the wiser of their denizens had fled to safety long before the Dark Lord claimed the space, and the others were marked only by burn holes.

A squat figure emerged from the shadows outside the door, which was ajar, and inched his way into the room, wrinkling his nose at the foul odor. Pale eyes darting about nervously, limbs twitching bizarrely every few seconds, he came forward to the desk, which he seemed to be attempting to employ as a shield against an unseen evil. From this ground he addressed the armchair.

"My lord, Malfoy has returned."

"Good…" An observer unaware of the speaker's species might suppose that the giant snake had uttered that sibilant syllable. "What news?"

The figure's twitching was amplified and he rocked back and forth very slightly. He seemed unable to answer.

"Well, Radley?"

Radley would have given any rocking-horse a run for its money. "The girl… the Mudblood… She's gone."

The snake's head snapped up and the man in the chair emitted an animal-like growl. "Gone? How could she be gone? You almost had her!"

Radley fervently hoped that his wife had left for Australia as per his request. He fully expected his lord to find some way to make this his fault (a feat, to be sure, since Radley had been assigned to a different project and hadn't had anything to do with the hunt for Potter's pet Mudblood until this morning), but if he was lucky, only he would bear the brunt of Lord Voldemort's wrath.

Relatively speaking, he _was_ lucky, though he would never know it. Caroline Radley and her daughter Isabel had had an uneventful portkey ride into Canberra.

"We think she used a time-turner, my lord." Radley hadn't seen Voldemort shift position, but he braced himself for the pain before he heard the word.

"_Crucio!_"

It was long before Radley stopped screaming, but eventually his voice could not bear the strain and he was able to utter only raspy croaks to vent his agony. In time, this pitiful attempt at a plea for mercy, more effective at holding Radley to bitter sanity through the repetition than it was at arousing tender feeling in Voldemort, was cut off by two words uttered in a cruel, high-pitched voice, and the corridors of the Ministry were silent once more.

Lord Voldemort murmured, half to himself, "Dinner, Nagini." He spoke not in Parseltongue but in human speech, since Nagini would have disdained to reply to such an obvious statement. He was not _her_ lord, but her ally, and one's hearing can be selective around allies as it cannot around direct superiors.

Voldemort didn't care. So what if the snake couldn't understand him when he spoke in plain English? So what if there was no one else around? It was such a good line.

He lingered for a moment, watching Nagini snack on the unfortunate Radley. When she seemed deeply enough absorbed that she would not object to his leaving her, he vanished with a crack.

The Dark Lord reappeared in a large room, decorated in various shades of gray. He brushed a speck of dust from his flowing cloak, and it vanished in the thick carpet. He stood in silence for a moment before he heard footsteps hurrying along the passageway towards him.

The person who entered was a tall, white-haired man with fair skin. Upon seeing his guest, he bowed so low that the end of his ponytail flipped over his head and touched the floor. When he straightened, his thin face showed only a servile reverence. "My Lord, such an honor to have you."

"No games, Lucius. You have failed me."

Lucius looked as though he was unsure of how to respond. "My lord…"

"Ssssssilenccccccccce..."

Lucius had a much stronger will than Radley had possessed, and was accustomed to his master's displeasure. He went for several minutes before he screamed. Also unlike Radley, he did not wear his voice out. Voldemort stopped before that was a possibility.

"Lucius… Take your son and go… Join Bellatrix and her force. Find me Potter."

"My lord, it will be a pleasure."

"_Now_, Lucius."

"I will fetch Draco immediately." Malfoy bowed himself out. Voldemort's cloak spun as he turned away, and then he was gone.

Malfoy heard the noise from his position in the hall, and his mask dropped. His piercing eyes dark with some unpleasant emotion, he snapped his fingers.

The creature who appeared was as pitiful a being as could be found in a wealthy wizarding home. She—her gender was only readily apparent from her pink pillowcloth rather than from her features—was small for a house-elf, and if a house elf could be said to be thinner than its brethren, whose bones were prominent ridges protruding from the graying skin, she was that house elf. Her bulbous eyes were bloodshot, and her fingers were heavily bandaged. "Master called Ankie?"

"Find my son." Seeing the flash of confusion in his servant's eyes, he glowered and snarled viciously, "My _older_ son, imbecile. Tell him that I have a new task, and that he is to accompany me. And tell him to pack a warm cloak. We leave in an hour." The house elf waited to see if further orders were forthcoming, and Malfoy's temper snapped. Landing a skillfully aimed kick on Ankie's ribs, he snarled, "Go!" Ankie went.

* * *

A/N: Some readers have expressed their frustration with Hermione's inability to do silent/wandless magic. I felt like Hermione, perfect, scholarly Hermione, had to have some chink in her armor, but I hate stories where Riddle runs rings around her. So, this was the only thing I could do. Eventually, we'll probably find out something that Riddle can't do all that well.

I felt like I should work the Nagini thing a little. We know from the first book that snakes don't respond well to being treated as pets. Why can't they be equals? Anyway, that bit may or may not be important later on.

Yes, I had to give the Malfoys more children. Just because.

By the way, I should warn you. My ideas for this story keep warping and changing and getting weirder. I'll try to keep this in the realm of the possible, or at least the possible given the fantasy world in which the story takes place, but I make no promises. On the plus side, I think we're getting somewhere with the Tom/Hermione thing. This is a romance, albeit a slow-moving one.

And about the pace, give me a break, people. It's kind of hard to imagine Hermione suddenly falling for the psychopath who killed her parents. There will be none of this "Tom Riddle was evil, but he was HOT" business, no sudden impulses to kiss the mass murderer. We'll get to the romance bit later. So, it's coming, but you'll have to wait a bit longer.

Review and I will love you forever. Thank you to those who have already reviewed. To you I give my undying gratitude.

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	8. The Lakeside Chat

Chapter 8

_In which Hermione wallows in memory (to a greater extent than is usual) and goes against Dumbledore's wishes._

Soon after that morning, November passed into December, and students began buzzing with plans for the upcoming winter holidays. Some were remaining in the castle, but most were heading home. Hermione skillfully avoided questions as to where her relatives would be going for the holidays, and Riddle outright lied. Hermione knew that he would be returning to the orphanage for the holidays, but the other students thought he had family in southern France, and that he and his parents were visiting them over the break.

Hermione was not surprised when Dumbledore asked to speak with her after class one day, the last Friday before school was out of session. The other students filed out, and Hermione waited patiently for Dumbledore to finish the sentence he was writing on the board for his next class. He turned slowly to face her. "Ah, Miss Grey. I asked you to stay a moment so that we could discuss your plans for the next month. I was wondering if you would like to move into the Slytherin dormitory temporarily. The castle is quite big, and one of my colleagues expressed a concern that you would be too isolated in the Heads' room." _His colleague? McGonagall, maybe?_

Hermione smiled forcedly. "Thank you, sir, but that will not be necessary."

Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, as long as you are sure you will be quite comfortable."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't think you understand. You see, I will not be moving into the Slytherin dormitory over the holidays because I will leave the castle along with the rest of the school."

Dumbledore's expression did not change, but the twinkle in his eyes dimmed. "I'm afraid that would be most unwise. It would be better in the long run for you to stay here, where we can continue to work on finding you a way home."

"Sir, I know that my parents are supposedly dead, but I claim to have relations, and wouldn't it look suspicious for a pureblood to stay over the holidays when even an orphaned halfblood like Tom Riddle has somewhere to go?"

She realized her mistake as soon as she stopped speaking. Dumbledore surveyed her over the tops of his spectacles, looking uncharacteristically grave. "Tell me, Miss Grey, how much do you know about Mr. Riddle?"

She swallowed. "Umm… One of my textbooks mentions him briefly. It gives a biography and a list of accomplishments, but that's it. So not much, really." It was only half a lie. Hogwarts: A History gave a biography of exceptional student Tom Riddle from his birth to his disappearance a few years after leaving school, and her History of Magic textbook devoted several pages to the Dark Arts that Lord Voldemort had refined. And she didn't know much about Tom Riddle, as he had been before he was a fully-fledged Dark lord.

Dumbledore's normally low voice became even softer as students came trickling in. "I do not believe in changing the natural order of time, so I will not ask you to reveal any more to me. If you must leave, I cannot keep you here. But be wary. There is a war on at the moment." His voice returning to its usual volume, he added, "You had better make haste, Miss Grey, or you may be late to Arithmancy." She was, and the only spot left was by Riddle.

She sat down beside him, returning his faux smile with one which was equally devoid of real warmth, and tried to concentrate on the lesson, but was unable to think about anything other than her impending departure.

Harry and Ron would have urged her to stay at Hogwarts, so that she could continue searching for a way home, but she didn't want to face the castle at this time of year. She hadn't been able to since seventh year, when her world had fallen apart. Logically, she should stay, since here she would have access to the best library in wizarding Britain, but she couldn't bring herself to linger on in the empty halls.

_I'll have to find somewhere to stay. Magic or Muggle? _Either way there would be a war going on. Neither was likely to affect her here, especially if she remembered her one year of Muggle history, and knew which areas of the country to avoid. Grindelwald wasn't about at the moment. Hermione was shocked to find that Professor Binns—the ghost, not the living man in this time period who droned on just as tediously as his dead counterpart—had taught her something useful. Hermione had scolded Harry and Ron for their inattention to their studies, but History of Magic had tried even her patience.

On that note, she really should be paying attention. The technique they were studying would almost certainly be on the NEWT, and Hermione would walk through Hell before she asked someone to borrow notes for a class she had attended herself. Perhaps it was an odd matter on which to rest her dignity, but we all have our quirks, and Hermione took pride in being a straight-O student of entirely her own making.

Despite her self-chastisement, Hermione had a hard time dragging her attention back to the teacher-prescribed paths. It was only when she saw that Riddle had taken roughly five feet of notes to her one that she managed to focus, and even that stimulus's effect wore off after fifteen minutes. Luckily, class ended soon after she had lapsed back into a haze of vague worry, and she had lunch next.

She didn't follow the stream of students towards the Great Hall, opting instead to split off in the Entrance Hall, avoiding notice by ducking behind a pillar and walking quickly towards the door to the outside world. It says something about the depth of Hermione's training in stealth that only one student out of all the masses among which she had heretofore proceeded saw her go, but that one observant student was a significant one. Tom Riddle waited for an opportune moment and followed Hermione's example. If Hermione had not just departed, she might have noticed his leaving the mainstream, but as it was, he slipped away without a single student taking heed, though he had never had any formal stealth training.

Hermione strolled down the hill towards the lake, absorbed in her own thoughts. She distracted herself for most of the way by reciting essential theorems of Arithmancy, but when she reached her destination, the scene was so strikingly similar to one that had taken place a few years ago/many years after, around this time of year, that her further attempts to hold back tears were to no avail.

Riddle watched her slim body shake with sobs, and an unfamiliar emotion crept over him. Uncertainty had never bothered Tom Riddle before, and why it should do so now was beyond him, but it was a fact that his debate over whether to reveal his presence or to melt away and return to the castle was no longer purely logical. Another part of Tom Riddle poked him in the side every time he decided to leave her there, keeping him where he was.

He had just given in to the impulse to come forward, when Hermione spoke. Her voice, though shaky, was loud and clear, and he felt a chill run over him. "I will find it, Mum, Dad, I promise you. I promise you, I will find a way to destroy him forever." **Didn't she say that her parents were dead?**

A flick of Riddle's hand and the wind died in a bubble around him, though he wasn't any warmer for it. A chill was creeping over him that had nothing to do with the temperature. As an afterthought, he extended the area of his spell to include Hermione, who had to be freezing.

They say that no good deed goes unpunished, and Riddle's rare random act of kindness was no exception. Hermione looked around suspiciously, and Riddle held his breath. Finally, she seemed to shrug it off, turning back to the water.

_I'm just being paranoid. Typical forces of evil _create_ strong winds, not neutralize them. Ergo, I am not being followed for sinister purposes. _But something stopped Hermione from writing the experience off as a natural phenomenon. A few yards away, a willow's tendrils blew furiously in the breeze. _What are the odds of the wind stopping in this area but continuing all around me?_

She was facing away from Riddle, so he couldn't see her narrowed eyes, but he read her apprehension in the tension of her back, and he noted the tiny flick of her wand arm. Silently cursing his stupidity, he went to leave, but found that he was unable to move more than a few inches. The air was thick around him; he felt as though he was swimming in molasses, except that that implies progress, albeit slow.

He was familiar with this incantation. It was rarely used; the charm was quite difficult to perform, and the counter spell wasn't hard, though it took a minute. He cursed again. **She'll find me as soon as I begin to unravel the magic, and if I don't try to free myself in the hope of waiting her out, she'll search physically. **Well, at least he could make her take the time to look for him. He stayed perfectly still and waited.

Hermione had no idea if the spell had worked, but her bet was that it hadn't. That had been one of the few spells from the numerous Charms texts through which she pored that she hadn't been able to master. _ Waste of time even to try, really. Whoever it was is probably gone by now, but it never hurts to check._ She moved towards the woods, stopping when she heard something—someone?—crashing through the brush.

Riddle, from behind whom the noise was coming, analyzed the situation carefully. Too clumsy to be a unicorn, and they were nocturnal, anyway. It wasn't a centaur, because they tended to travel in groups. But there were darker forest creatures… Tom Riddle wasn't scared—it took a lot more than unexplained sounds to do that—but it would be fair to say that he was slightly apprehensive.

**Time for a change of strategy. Getting away from whatever is back there trumps not being seen by Grey. **Riddle proceeded to attack the magic binding him.

A few yards away, Hermione's eyes widened. She could feel the spell tugging on her mind; someone was trying to free themselves from its confines. Someone very close. But for a moment, Hermione didn't think to follow the pull. _It worked! I did it!_ Hermione was on the verge of doing a little victory dance when another thought struck her. _Wait, if the spell worked, then who or what is blundering its way through the bushes?_ Unsure whether to back away or to approach, she stayed where she was.

Riddle finally succeeded in exhausting the power supply that Hermione had fed into her spell, and it collapsed. He brushed away the last traces of the enchantment, and his connection to Hermione dissolved. He turned half-around to face the intruder, just as Hermione came into the thicket behind him. She saw his face register a split second's contempt, before the disdain was replaced by a look of awkward uncertainty.

Tom Riddle swallowed. "Hagrid…"

The bigger boy grunted in response. "Tom. What'r ye doin' down here?" His beetle-black eyes turned to Hermione, taking in her Slytherin crest and green shirt. He said suspiciously, "Who's that?"

Hermione smiled politely, biting her tongue. _Focus on the pain, Hermione. The physical pain._ She couldn't cry upon a chance encounter with a stranger. Never mind that he wasn't a stranger, that he was like a favorite uncle to her. Luckily, over the past two and a half months Hermione had gotten accustomed to displaying an indifferent front as she was introduced to a future comrade or enemy, and nothing about her demeanor revealed anything other than courteous indifference. "I'm Hermione Grey. I transferred here in September. I believe he called you Hagrid?"

Hagrid muttered an affirmative, still eying her with distaste.

_Now, at the risk of making Hagrid sad or angry, I have to see how comfortable Riddle is with his little story about Hagrid's expulsion._ This was already awkward for them; it was only fair that they should communicate that tone to her. "I don't think I've seen you around. What house are you in?"

Riddle did an amazing impression of a boy who has had to turn against someone for whom he held no enmity, and who now has to deal with said person's bitterness; he closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, there was deep pain in them. Hagrid said, with a degree of delicate irony that Hermione had never before heard him use, his tone suggesting that he was mimicking someone rather than expressing a sentiment in his own words, "I'm just the groundskeeper's assistant."

"Oh." Hermione, the consummate actress, blushed. "I didn't realize."

Riddle watched her closely. That little display of embarrassment would have fooled anyone other than a Slytherin, but Riddle saw through it easily enough, though not with the degree of ease that he might have had at the beginning of her stay at Hogwarts. She had actually had him fooled for a nanosecond.

**What is she playing at? She acts as though she already knew that. Perhaps she had heard that from someone else? But why intentionally make him uncomfortable? It doesn't fit her modus operandi. That thing with Martineaux had me thinking she was some sort of do-gooder, and she seemed sincere to me.** Unless… **No, not feasible. She may have secrets, but I doubt that one of them is mind-reading. **There was, Riddle was sure, no way that Hermione was acting as she was to embarrass _him_. She couldn't know how the topic related to him. **But then why?**

Hagrid snorted, and said incredulously, "Bet yeh din't." Seeing the hurt look on Hermione's face, he added in a slightly gentler tone, "I use' teh be in Gryffindor." He almost cringed, seeming to be waiting for Hermione to make a snide comment. When none was forthcoming, he relaxed a bit. She seemed to be like Tom in that she didn't judge people. The Head Boy was all right; he couldn't help but think that Aragog was a monster, since he didn't know what Hagrid knew: that Aragog was harmless compared to whatever had been killing students.

"Yer Tom's friend, then?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Hermione exchanged a look with Riddle, and for a moment they were united in amusement. "I haven't known him for very long, but he was really the first to welcome me to Hogwarts." Hermione noted with surprise that emotionless Riddle seemed to be having trouble keeping a straight face in keeping with his charade of guilt and shame before the well-meaning man whom he had exposed as a criminal.

Hagrid clapped Riddle on the back. "He's a good man, Tom." Hermione's moment of enjoying the situation ended as she remembered what the "good man" had done to Hagrid, who still seemed to like him. _He doesn't blame Riddle! He really thinks that Riddle believes him to be the criminal. Merlin, poor Hagrid._ For an instant, her prefect side took over. _Of course, he really shouldn't have tried to keep an Acromantula in the school._

Tom smiled sadly. "You also, Rubeus. I think, though, that we must be going. Lunch must be almost over."

Hagrid nodded. "I hafta get back to Professor Kettleburn." He lumbered off.

Hermione waited until he was out of earshot, and then wheeled on Riddle. "What were you doing out here?"

Riddle settled for part of the truth. "I was following you." _No shit. _ "You aren't supposed to leave the castle at this time on a school day."

"If you're such a dutiful Head Boy, St. Tom, then why didn't you show yourself? It ill-befits your esteemed office for you to skulk around."

Riddle met her eyes and said quietly, "You looked as though you were upset. I was just going to wait until you left." With a shock, Hermione realized that she could sense no note of falsehood. _Either he's a much better actor even than we thought_—very believable—_or he's telling the truth_—not so likely.

"Didn't it occur to you that I might not want you to see me crying? That it might have been more polite to show yourself, so that I knew I was being watched?"

When Riddle replied, any hint of truth was gone from his voice. Try though he might to simulate honesty, Hermione saw through it. "I must not have been thinking clearly. I apologize most sincerely." _Liar!_ "I just… I know what it's like to be lonely." _I bet you do._ "Listen, Miss Grey—Hermione—if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here."

Hermione responded, voice saccharine, "I extend the same offer, _Tom_. It can be stressful, having to be the best all the time."

Realizing too late that she had left herself wide open for a jab as to how she would know that, Hermione braced herself. Riddle saw it and, for just the barest instant, he smiled genuinely. Noticing the uncharacteristic expression, he wiped it away and was supremely grateful that Hermione, gazing at the ground in a pitiful attempt to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks, saw nothing of this.

"Yes, it can."

Hermione determined to change the subject, although the next topic she had in mind was if anything _more_ volatile rather than less. "So, Rubeus, was it? What happened that he's not in school here anymore?"

Riddle's jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. "He was expelled."

Seeing that that was all Riddle was prepared to share, Hermione held her tongue as they went back to the castle.

When the pair walked into the Great hall, side by side, the students accepted it without comment; by now, the sight of the pair was commonplace. Up at the high table, Slughorn's giant belly shook with his mirth as he expounded on the growing depth of their relationship to Professor Dumbledore, who heard nothing the speaker was saying. Slughorn didn't notice his companion's inattention, but the woman on Dumbledore's other side did. McGonagall caught Professor Binns's eye, and the latter tapped the Potions Professor. When Slughorn turned, Binns began a lecture on student displays of affection.

McGonagall gently placed a hand on Dumbledore's arm. "What is it, sir?" He didn't answer her.

He was gazing at the Slytherin table, where Tom and Hermione were the center of attention, as usual. It worried him that the girl was seen so often with Riddle. Surely she would be wise enough to avoid him if there was anything to unsavory in his future, but… How much did he really know about this Hermione Granger? For all he knew, that could be a false name. And the hat had seemed very sure that she was a natural Slytherin. Nothing wrong with that, in and of itself, but… There wasn't a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. And she knew a lot more about Riddle then she would tell him if he asked, he was sure.

The objects of Dumbledore's concern were completely oblivious to his surveillance. Dumbledore watched Riddle, Riddle watched Grey, and Grey watched clouds progressing slowly across the enchanted ceiling.

"So, Tom, what are you doing for the winter holidays?" asked a singularly impudent Slytherin first-year. A Black, wasn't it? Some pureblood who was well-connected enough to mistake Tom for an equal, rather than a superior in everything but birth.

Riddle struggled not to snarl at the boy, who had no idea how close he was to a nasty death. "I'm going home," he lied. He wasn't going home: he had no home to which to go. It was back to the orphanage for him, but they didn't have to know that.

"Where's home?" The boy was really pushing his luck. Riddle glared at him, and the fool stared back.

"England," Riddle said coolly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the older, wiser Slytherins registering his displeasure. **Not good. Home is a happy place. Happy place, Tom.** This was a supremely difficult concept to hold on to, though, since Riddle wasn't sure what happy was supposed to feel like. His best guess was that it was similar to the feeling he got when meeting with the Death Eaters. He forced a pleasant smile, but those around him were still watching him warily. **Oh, well.** **With any luck, they'll mistake it as irritation at Black's idiocy. Certainly, he well deserves my wrath. **

"Just a hint, Black," drawled Abraxas Malfoy, as though reading the Slytherin Prince's mind, "it's 'sir' or 'ma'am' to you, not 'Tom' or 'Abraxas' or 'Eileen.'" Seeing a smug pug-faced girl smirking at her rival's disgrace, he added, "That goes for you, too, Parkinson." She glowered.

But Black proved to be incorrigible. "What about you, Hermione?" Hermione didn't answer; she was still staring at the ceiling. "Hermione?" The older student tried to look down her nose at the midget who was invading her bubble. It didn't go very well. She was quite enthusiastic, and she had the benefit of being socially in the right, but Black had had years of practice at haughty looks, and he was unfazed by Hermione's pathetic attempt at one. "What are you doing for the holidays?"

"I'm leaving."

"For where? Are you going on holiday with your mum and dad?"

Throughout the ranks of the Slytherins, there was an instant uneasy awareness that he had said the wrong thing. Hermione had only mentioned her parents' deaths to Riddle, and that only out of a sick desire to confront him as her parents' murderer, but while Hermione never objected to questions about her home, mention her parents specifically, and you ran the risk of being jinxed.

Black understood why the table was hushed far too late for him to do anything about it. Hermione leveled her wand at his face. She was trying to decide what spell to use—_Crucio_ never crossed her mind, though it had been the means of much of her parents' suffering before the final _Avada Kedavra_; Hermione still had too much Gryffindor in her to allow the use of an Unforgivable—when Riddle's slender finger pushed the wand to the side. "Miss Grey. Kindly refrain from threatening the younger students."

There was an unspoken _in front of the teachers_ in his tone, and something passed between them as Hermione stepped down. Riddle, not having the benefit of knowing about Hermione what she did about him, couldn't define it, but Hermione would have characterized it as empathy. Neither she nor Riddle had parents, and though she had the Burrow—of which she gave a general sketch, albeit of a grander version, every time someone here tried to probe into her home life—it wasn't really the same as having your own house, with your own relations waiting to welcome you home.

Riddle wondered again what had happened to her parents. She had said they were dead, but earlier, by the lake… The most likely thing was that she was addressing someone by means of magical communication. He couldn't think of any sort that would take on such a form, but the older pureblood families guarded their secrets jealously. It might also have been… Riddle frowned. **But what pureblood would be so mawkish as to speak to the dead? I thought she had more sense then that.**

He had decided quite a while ago that if her parents were dead, Grindelwald was the reason. Why he could only speculate, but that was the only thing that made sense. What other cause would drive her to be so secretive about it? She was probably biding her time. His theory on this matter was strengthened by her comment earlier, when she had thought herself alone, that she would destroy "him." **Who else could "he" be but Grindelwald?**

It seems to the writer a shame that Hermione was not a mind-reader, as had she been, she would doubtless have found something to amuse her in Riddle's ironic train of thought. As it was, she saw little funny in the situation. She was wondering where she would go over the holiday.

She was most likely going to take the train to London with the rest of the students, where she would slip away before anyone noticed that no one was coming for her. Then she would be gone in the crowds.

She didn't know how the wizarding population in London was faring, but she was fairly sure that there would be no questions about her heritage or wealth. London was a big city, with plenty of room for anonymity. There she would take stock of things and invent a story about her relatives taking her to Casablanca. Hell, she could actually go. Wizards weren't too bothered about Muggle politics, so she would be able to get in and out easily enough. But she finally opted to remain in Britain, since she had no means to get to Morocco; floo didn't work for long distances, she didn't have an apparition license in this time, and portkeys required advance notice.

Despite the unfortunate turn of events that had brought the state of affairs about, it was nice not to have to answer to anyone else. Dumbledore couldn't make her stay at Hogwarts without telling Dippet why he was so certain she hadn't anyone to go to, and she knew he wouldn't do that. Come to think of it, it was also nice to have outmaneuvered Dumbledore, even if it wasn't her skill so much as circumstances.

She drained her goblet of pumpkin juice and went to class, fifteen minutes early. _There are going to be other challenges. I can ask Dumbledore to lend me money, but after telling him that I'm leaving whether or not he approves, I don't relish the idea. So I'll need to find some way to earn money. _ Then the thought hit her full on; it had been tugging at the corners of her mind for some time, but she was only just now acknowledging it. _Knockturn Alley will have any number of temporary jobs, and they won't ask questions. _Prostitution was the most obvious of these, but Hermione wasn't quite that desperate. No, she would ask around in the shops.

Something in her balked at the idea of working in one of the shadier establishments, but Hermione firmly stamped on that part of her. _This is no time to be squeamish about illegality! How many laws did you break by coming here in the first place?_ Well, there was no answering that. _Knockturn Alley it is, then. Won't Harry and Ron be thrilled to hear about this?_

Riddle was so used to the image of the red-haired boy that he didn't even glance at Hermione when the Weasley popped up in his head. The image was a little fuzzier now, as though there weren't as strong emotions connected with it as there had been on other times. This was just a thought in passing.

There was emotion in Grey's broadcast, though. A black-haired boy, who had heretofore played only a small part in the girl's memories, was coming through loud and clear. The sight of this boy's visage sent spiders scuttling up and down Riddle's back. There was something hard in those green eyes, and something else that he didn't like, something fierce and gentle at once. Riddle knew the type; he had twice seen it reflected back at him in the eyes of Abraxas Malfoy, who was too noble of heart for his good as a Slytherin, and it was always visible in the eyes of certain Gryffindors. Those were a hero's eyes. They belonged to someone who would fight for all that was good and light in the world. Needless to say, Riddle had no patience with them.

Late that night, Hermione was packing all of her things—she didn't want to have to come back to Hogwarts if she found a way home while she was away—when she found that she had left one of her books in the common room. She padded softly into the dark room, and froze with her hand on her door.

Riddle was lying on the couch, sprawled out asleep. She got the same feeling that she had in the Room of Requirement those weeks ago, that vague, formless uneasiness. _Strange. This is twice I've caught him sleeping. You'd think he'd have some sort of reflex, that he'd wake when anyone came near him. _It was amazing that Riddle seemed to feel safe here.

Had Riddle actually felt secure in his common room, it would indeed have been amazing. But Hermione saw the glint of two tiny eyes in the dark, and then Leila uncoiled herself from Tom's wrist, where she had been hidden in shadow. She hissed menacingly, and Hermione backed away, into her door. Riddle had said Leila wasn't venomous, but that didn't mean anything.

Hermione inched forward. When she was less than an arm's length from the table on which lay her book, she snatched the tome and fled back into her room. Leila curled herself on Tom's chest, and the common room was still once more.

* * *

A/N: Sorry this was so long in coming, but I've been busy.

If you can read this story, you can see the little box just beneath this writing. Click on it and write me a note. Tschau! (That is, apparently, the German spelling of the Italian word _ciao_.)


	9. The Motel

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah. Non sum Rowling. Esne Rowling? Non cogitabam te esse. Igitur componamus tacere de dominio Harrii Pottris.

A/N: I believe the above Latin to be correct, but please tell me if there are any mistakes I missed.

* * *

Chapter 9

_In which Hermione goes on holiday._

The next day, Abraxas Malfoy met Hermione in the Great Hall and offered her his arm. As she didn't need her hands for her luggage, which was bobbing along above her head, she accepted, and they walked to the carriages. As Malfoy was helping her into the nearest one, she caught Corentin's eye as he was getting into another carriage. He winked at her, and she gave him the tiniest smile back. He had been practicing flying with her for weeks now, and she was slowly but steadily improving. Corentin also appeared to have gotten over his unease about a nighttime meeting with a girl without a chaperone.

As Hermione was climbing into the carriage, trying not to give any sign that she was aware of the Thestrals who were harnessed to it, she was unrecognizable as anything more than a particularly well-bred Slytherin. Her once bushy hair was up in a sleek bun, and her eyes, which had once been decidedly warm, were cool. She wore black robes over an emerald green blouse, and she had decided on a skirt rather than pants, as the latter attire had horrified the Slytherins the one time she had been brave enough to try it. This was the 1940's, after all.

Eileen Prince might have a royal surname, but in a few short months, Hermione had supplanted her as Slytherin Princess. It little mattered that Hermione did not want the title, that Eileen had been there far longer. Riddle clearly preferred Hermione's company, and that was that.

It was quite lucky that Eileen's loyalty to Tom and her liking of Hermione were as strong as they were, because otherwise she could have done far more damage to Hermione's position in Slytherin House than had ever really been in Ino Rosier's power. The Slytherin girls liked Tom, but it was Eileen whom they followed. Miss Prince could have had her social standing back in a second, if she had tried. Eileen, however, seemed to have no interest in ostracizing Hermione and to be content in following Tom's lead, so Grey remained in favor.

The former Princess was already seated in the carriage when Hermione and Abaxas got in. Riddle was lounging diagonally opposite her. Malfoy took the seat beside him, and Hermione positioned herself beside Eileen, who greeted her sweetly. The school's pureblood elite—so called because as far as Malfoy and Prince knew, their companions were bluebloods through and through—made small talk on the short ride to the Hogwarts Express, at which place they moved together to a compartment near the middle of the train.

Once in this latter area, they set about playing two games of wizard's chess. Hermione defeated Malfoy and Tom Eileen. The two not-quite purebloods were now to face off. They set about moving pieces rapid-fire, the runners-up watching intently and negotiating a bet—Malfoy backed Hermione, and Eileen was all for Tom. Judging by the outcome of their last match, in the Slytherin common room so many weeks ago, Hermione would also have put money on Riddle, but she wasn't permitted to do so. Instead, she tried her best to see that Malfoy won his bet.

While she was, in the end, unable to do that, she did achieve a draw, something that was apparently unheard of against Riddle. _Yay for me. I should be finding ways to annihilate him, and instead I'm playing against him in chess? _She vowed to renew her search for a way home, in case the snake sculpture either remained blank or turned out to be something unrelated to her quest. The former seemed daunting, the latter impossible, but Hermione didn't let herself think about what would happen if she did neither. Failing at both was not an option.

She lapsed into an internal tangential discussion on the effect of time travel on age. She was theoretically only six months older than Ron, for instance, but in actuality she was almost twenty-one to his barely nineteen. At least, she had been. God knows how old she would be when she finally returned home.

A thought struck her, and it astonished her that it hadn't occurred to her earlier. She stared at the Slytherins, who had seemed so imposing to her. _Good Merlin, I'm so much older than they are! They're still teenagers, and I'm an adult. _But her present companions, at least, didn't act the age difference. _I suppose that comes from being a Slytherin. But haven't they noticed the age gap?_ "I thought Slytherins were supposed to be observant," she mused aloud.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "And what makes you think we aren't?"

"How old do you think I am?" Hermione knew that this was risky territory, but she had a story ready.

Malfoy and Eileen shrugged in unison. "Twenty?" the latter offered.

"But if you thought I was older that everyone else, didn't you wonder why?"

The pair looked at her as though she had asked what you got from 2 and 2.

"Of course. But we are _discreet_, Miss Grey," Riddle answered her from the corner. "We weren't going to ask you outright."

"Oh." Hermione sank back into her chair and waited for them to prompt her. They didn't, so she sat in silence, embarrassed.

Finally, Malfoy sighed. "Very well, Miss Grey. As it is so important to you to share, why are you so much older than they are?"

Hermione's brow furrowed. "They?"

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at her. "I thought you were supposed to be observant? I myself am nearly twenty. I did not attend Hogwarts until I was thirteen. My parents were in hiding over a… misunderstanding."

"Oh." Hermione felt her face grow hot, and she knew that she was probably beet red.

Riddle was exchanging glances with Eileen. If Malfoy had noticed Hermione's slip of the tongue, he wasn't showing it, but Eileen had obviously caught it. Hermione had referred to Slytherins as a group excluding herself. She had done that numerous times at the beginning of the year, understandable since she was a new student, but the slip had become less frequent since. Riddle had noticed an interesting correlation: Grey tended to act less Slytherin when she was thinking of her mysterious red-headed lover or of another of her old group of friends. It wasn't too great of a mental leap, then, to assume that they probably wouldn't have been sorted into Slytherin if they were attending Hogwarts.

"Well, Miss Grey?" Malfoy's eyes betrayed the smirk that he was so accomplished at keeping from his lips.

"It's not a very interesting story. It's just that I was homeschooled, but my relatives finally realised that there was nothing more they could teach me. By that time, I was twenty." Hermione had just wanted to tell the story, to have it out there.

"I see." Malfoy was far too well-bred to roll his eyes, but Hermione could see that he wanted to.

The train chugged on. Hermione sat in silence, looking for cloud animals. Eileen closed her eyes and sat serenely, apparently asleep. Abraxas sat upright and looked regal. And Riddle pulled from his knapsack a black leather book with silver stamping on it, and began to read. Hermione, glancing briefly in his direction, noted that though the book was written in runes, he read it quickly, turning the pages almost as quickly as Hermione would those of a normal book. This irritated her, but she ignored it.

When the train screeched to a halt in the early evening, the Slytherin nobility gathered their trunks—except for Tom, who had only his knapsack, having left all else at school—and walked sedately onto the platform, while around them, students were embracing each other and promising to write. Hermione and Tom shook hands with Malfoy and Eileen, who went to their respective families. Malfoy held out his hand to Kylie, who broke away from her group and joined him, and walked towards a crowd of platinum heads swathed in grey. Malfoy and Kylie, both resplendent in expensive emerald green, were the two most striking of the party.

Eileen's welcoming party was much smaller. A tall, imperious woman favored her with a thin smile, while a short, portly man beamed at her from behind thick glasses. A little ways away, a house elf holding a baby looked on while trying to appear apathetic.

Hermione and Riddle stared at each other. "I had better go," she said finally. "My family couldn't come to meet me, but they'll be expecting me at the house soon."

**Liar. **Riddle nodded. "I also must go to meet relatives who were unable to come."

_Liar_. "Good-bye, Tom." The informal address stuck on her tongue, but she forced it out.

"Good-bye, Hermione." He wasn't comfortable with calling her by her first name, but "Grey" would be too rude, and he would be damned before he'd fall into the servant-master relationship, in which the servant was "First Name" and the master was "Mr/Mrs. Last Name". "Hermione" it was.

"I'll miss you." She would miss him. While it would be nice to not have to worry about keeping up the appearance of being a loyal follower, she _would_ miss having a sparring partner.

"Yes." Not a return of the sentiment, just an acknowledgement.

She opened her mouth as if to add something, but she couldn't form the words. Whirling around on her heel, she strode majestically away.

Very close to the entrance to the platform, Barney Weasley stomped away from Gretchen, with whom he had been arguing, and melted into a sea of red hair and freckles. Unable to resist, Hermione walked over. "Barney."

"Miss Grey?"

"What did you say to Miss Atwood?"

"Nothing…"

A sigh. "She's a good friend to you, Barney. You ought to treat her better."

"And _who_ are _you_?" This from a large blonde woman, whose eyes were narrowed and whose lips were pursed with distaste. She had to be the Weasley matriarch.

By this time, Hermione didn't have to remind herself of why the Weasleys didn't appreciate her presence. She barely even resented the circumstances any more. "You must be Mrs. Weasley. It's nice to meet you. I'm Hermione Grey. I tutor your son in Potions."

Mrs. Weasley thrust the toddler she was holding at her husband. "Hold Arthur, dear." Double chins wobbling, she looked Hermione up and down. Hermione stayed completely still, accepting the scrutiny with good grace. "Well." Her eyes went slightly softer. "Grey, you said?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe I know the name."

Hermione looked down. "My parents are dead. My relatives have a different name."

She couldn't see Mrs. Weasley's face, as she was still staring intently at the floor, but she knew the older woman's heart was bleeding for her. "Oh, you poor dear."

"It's been very nice to meet you, but I have to go."

Riddle, in the shadow of a pillar, was heartily amused. He saw Hermione approach and question the Weasley runt, saw Mrs. Weasley interrogate her in turn, saw Hermione's shoulders slump with emotion, which was most likely feigned. Then Grey walked away.

Hermione shrunk her trunk into her pocket (magic outside of school—the best part of being a legal adult), strode through the barrier, and was swallowed by the crowds of Muggle London. Riddle walked through a little afterwards, and set out at a brisk walk through the streets. He turned once, twice, and once again, ever heading into a shadier part of town.

As the streets got smaller and darker, the people began to thin out, and those who remained were grungy and shifty-eyed. Riddle marched determinedly on, broken glass crunching under his feet. A strange, sickly sweet smell wafted up from the gutters, and the lump lying by the side of the road proved to be a small, crippled dog. Riddle casually trod on it, snapping its neck under his heel. And kept on moving through.

After half an hour of such walking, Riddle came to a fence with bits of glass and nails stuck into the wooden boards. He pushed open the wooden gate and went into the tiny yard.

It looked as though somebody had tried and failed to preserve a patch of green in the city. There was grass, brittle and brown, and Riddle recognized a tangle of weeds as the remains of a flower garden. A path of stones, barely discernable under the dirt and scraggly growth, led to a front doorstep, whereupon sat a small girl, age possibly eleven, hair color possibly blonde once, eyes a washed-out blue. Seated on her lap was a bony orange cat.

When the waif saw Riddle, she froze. The cat sensed her stiffening and turned his yellow eyes to the object of her fear. Beholding the advancing Riddle, the cat leapt from her lap and was around the side of the building in a flash.

Riddle gave the structure before him a cursory glance. It had, if possible, grown more dilapidated since September. The brick, which had always been crumbling, was now shedding large chunks, which littered the ground a few feet from the wall. The one front window was cracked in the top right, and held together with tape in the bottom. Nothing particularly startling.

Having ascertained that no major changes had been made to the orphanage since last he had dwelled there, Riddle now turned his gaze upon the girl. "Well, Annie. How have you been?" Annie didn't answer. "Answer me, Annie."

"Bin good," the little girl mumbled in reply.

"That's good. Very good."

"Annie? Annnnnnnnnnnnnie?" A young woman came around the side of the building, holding the arm of a grubby little boy. "Annie, did you take Rupert's mar…ble?" She stopped dead, having noticed Riddle. "Tom! I wasn't expecting you."

Tom smiled warmly. "Catherine." She had, he observed, remained exactly the same. Precisely the same bright blue eyes, blonde hair, naturally pale skin rendered deathly white from stress. **She always was beautiful.** "You're keeping well." **Not for long, if I can help it.**

She forced a smile. "Thank you. I'd love to catch up with you, but Annie needs her bath." Annie looked rebellious, but a glance at Riddle's smiling face sent her scurrying to Cathy's arms.

Riddle stood outside for a moment after the trio had gone into the orphanage. Catherine worried him. Over the years, she had shown herself to be the least susceptible of the orphanage denizens to fear of him, and she had gradually become less and less deferential. From her posture—she had straightened her spine and lifted her head as soon as she saw him—it looked as though she was now going to attempt to establish herself as his equal. Well, that wouldn't matter after the Christmas holidays, since he would then be free from the place forever—as would she, come to think of it, she was seventeen now—but he would be here for three weeks, and he needed to quash her ideas of standing up to him.

Riddle slowly moved towards the door, letting his plans for the next few weeks unfold in his head.

* * *

Hermione stood in a pub on the other side of London, arguing with a bartender over the price of the floo powder she would need to get to Knockturn Alley.

"Look, you get the stuff for a few Galleons a pot. Charging me 15 Sickles a pinch is highway robbery."

The bartender shrugged his massive shoulders. "War economy, what can y'do? S'not jus the Muggles whose prices r'goin' up."

"I'll give you 11 Sickles, and that's being generous."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, you can take your generosity and—"

"A pureblood who bargains? My, my, Miss Grey, you _are_ a puzzle indeed."

Hermione turned around. To her surprise, there stood Corentin Harad and a tall, exotic-looking woman wrapped in furs against the December chill. "Corentin! And Mrs. Harad?" She stamped on the question mark too late. Purebloods shouldn't have to ask.

"Ah, she does look like my mother, does she not? No, this is my aunt, Akila Chevalier."

"My apologies. How rude of me."

"Not at all, dear child." She had a faint lilt to her voice, but her English was clear and correct.

Corentin beamed, seeming to be quite happy that his aunt approved of Hermione. "We just stepped in to use the Floo network. We were delighted to see you. You are flooing to your relatives?"

"Yes. But this man—"

"I meant no disrespect!" the bartender interjected anxiously. His eyes darted furiously from Corentin to Hermione. She almost smiled at his poor attempt to backtrack.

"I am sure you did not," Corentin's aunt replied. "I am quite sure you were about to offer Miss Grey a reasonable price for your Floo powder. I am quite sure you would never do anything to prevent a gentle lady from reaching her relatives in this difficult time."

The man was trembling. "Never!"

"Good. Now, Miss Grey, before this bartender does everything in his power to see that your Floo journey will be as pleasant as possible, I beg a word of you. Can you spare a moment for the relative of a school friend?"

"Certainly." Having no exact destination and no deadline, Hermione could spare any number of moments.

Akila took Hermione's arm in hers, in the friendly, conspiratorial manner common among certain circles of pureblood women, and guided her over to a table near the back of the dingy room. She made a small gesture with her index finger, and the table took on a clean, shiny, almost new appearance. _Yay. More people intent on reminding me of my inability to do wandless magic._ Hermione glanced over her shoulder and saw that Corentin was standing by the bar, deliberately out of earshot for courtesy's sake. _Ever the pureblood._

"You are a transfer student, I believe?"

"I am. I have only lately had the pleasure of entering Hogwarts."

"When you decided to join a wizarding school, did you consider Beauxbatons?"

Hermione wanted to roll her eyes at the thought of the chic, glossy, arrogant women who had visited from Beauxbatons in her fourth year. No, she had never considered joining their number. "I thought it seemed a wonderful idea, but my uncle would not have me so far from home."

"It is understandable. France is very different from what you are no doubt used to. Have you ever had the pleasure of visiting France?"

"Only once, when I was very small." This was true. Hermione's parents had taken here there when she was five. She remembered very little of it.

"Well, I have a little house in the south of France. Corentin will be visiting me there over the holidays, and my daughter, Marguerite, will be home from Beauxbatons. It would make us all very happy if you would come and pass a little of the break with us. I know that you must be with your relatives for Christmas, and doubtless you will wish to spend much time telling them your stories and hearing their tales, but perhaps you could spare the last week, and spend New Year's with us."

Hermione was momentarily at a loss. Was this a normal hand of friendship, or was it unusually casual? Should she be surprised or offended, or take it in stride? She settled for the last, since that was usually the safest bet.

"That would be wonderful, but I don't wish to be a burden."

"Speak nothing of such, child. You will bring us great joy."

"Then I am delighted to accept your offer." And she was. One week in the company of the kindest pureblood she knew, and with his family, who were, if she remembered correctly, _the_ people to know. Akila was clearly not a Harad by blood—she was Corentin's maternal aunt, but she would have _some_ influence, and perhaps there would be other family members there.

Akila Chevalier lit up, taking Hermione's breath away. The woman was imposing and regal when she bore no smile, but when she was pleased, she was simply radiant. "Then it is settled. How shall we go about this?" A pause. "Let us send a carriage to your house."

"Thank you, but my aunt will not have vehicles on the grounds. It is a quirk of hers."

Akila didn't comment on this. That and other flimsy excuses like it were a pureblood's polite way of saying, "We're paranoid and we hold all of our functions at our country home which we never actually inhabit, so that no potential enemies know where we live."

"I see. Well then, perhaps we could arrange to meet you elsewhere."

It was soon settled that Hermione would be waiting outside Gringotts on the 30th. A carriage bearing the Chevalier crest would meet her there.

"Well, dear child, perhaps we ought to send you on to your relatives now. They must be beginning to be worried. Corentin!" Her nephew walked over and looked at her, awaiting her commands. ""Would you care to accompany Miss Grey to her home?"

A perfunctory offer—Madam Chevalier already knew Hermione would refuse—but custom demanded that it be made.

"No, please, don't trouble yourself."

"It would be no trouble at all," Corentin protested.

"You are very kind, but you ought to stay with your aunt. I will find my own way."

"If you are determined…"

She was, but she thanked them very much for their kind concern. She was greatly excited to see them again on the 2nd day of the new year. Until then, she wished them good health. And now, she would to her relatives' house.

The bartender was more than solicitous, and waved her money away. It was an honor to serve one so high, he assured her. No payment was necessary. Really.

Hermione had been prepared to whisper the name of her destination, but it was not necessary. The duo stood a fair distance back, waiting for their turn to step into the emerald flames. "Knockturn Alley!" she cried, enunciating as best she could, and was gone.

Akila Chevalier looked at her nephew. "Ah, you make such interesting friends at school."

Corentin smiled. "She certainly is intriguing, isn't she? I believe I am growing quite fond of her."

Akila raised an eyebrow. "_Are_ you? Well, that's good to know."

"Once you get to know her better, you'll understand."

"I am sure."

The two linked arms and stepped into the fire.

* * *

Hermione stepped out of the flames and brushed herself off, head in a whirl from more than the journey. _I don't understand purebloods! I thought I was beginning to get the hang of things, but I was obviously wrong! What sort of people treat their closest friends only to a tiny nod and brief eye contact, and invite near-strangers to their homes for a week?_

Well, she supposed that she qualified as Corentin's friend. Their flying lessons had grown longer and had expanded to often include a study session before they went out to the pitch. They no longer worried about curfew. Ceres had even stopped tsking and making prudish comments when Corentin accompanied her up to her room, as he now did after every session. No one tried to find Hermione on Friday and Saturday nights; word had gotten around that the young woman was learning to fly.

_Okay, so we're friends. I'll see him in two weeks. Moving on. Now what?_

She was standing in another pub, but this one was even dirtier and less reputable than the last. While she was standing there, a drunk had stumbled over to the chair nearest the fire and flopped down in it. She fought the urge to wrinkle her nose at his sour smell.

Having recognized the inn as the infamous _Goblin's Corpse_—the politically incorrect name dated from the 1500's, and no amount of protests from equality activists had convinced the owners to change tradition (the institution was to be shut down in 1987 for the proprietor's involvement in the murder of one goblin and the torture of another)—Hermione approached the counter. "Over here."

The barmaid turned, her expression changing from irritation to obsequiousness as she recognized the smell of old money. "Can I help your Ladyship?"

_Your Ladyship? Honestly?_ "Do you have a back room where I can change?"

The barmaid asked no questions—it doesn't do to look too closely at a potential money-making opportunity. She pointed to the other end of the room, where a tattered scarlet curtain was pulled over a doorway. Hermione flipped her a galleon—large enough for her not to be ungracious, but not so large that she'd risk looking through her guest's pockets just yet. _By the time she gathers her cronies and formulates a practicable plan to rid the rich fool of her money, I won't be recognizable._

When Hermione pulled back the ancient curtain, which practically disintegrated in her hand, she beheld a narrow hallway leading to several rooms. The first two had just curtains, and Hermione passed them by, but the third had a proper door. Hermione opened this and gasped. "Oh, I'm so sorry!" The girl sneered at her more disdainfully than should have been possible from her undignified position, but the man didn't even turn to look at her. Hermione slammed the door and moved on.

The fourth room had a curtain, which Hermione was still trying to avoid, and the fifth held a young man passed out on the bed, but the last was empty. Here Hermione stopped and enlarged and opened her trunk, which contained many soiled pairs of robes. As gratifying as it would be for the writer to indicate that her main character, with whom she necessarily feels a sort of kinship, was so prepared as to pack ragged clothes for such an occasion as that which had arisen, it would also require the author to tell an untruth. O di, vetate! And so I must confess that Hermione had not stored dirty clothes up against an undercover operation. She had merely been unable to perform a cleaning spell, for fear of attracting her foes. Afterwards, at Hogwarts, it hadn't crossed her mind.

Digging through the pile of filthy garments, Hermione selected a short, ripped black skirt and a relatively clean red blouse. A little further rummaging revealed a bottle of jasmine perfume that Ron had bought her. She rarely wore it, since it was a bit strong for her taste. _Perfect! …Ron would have a fit if he saw the use to which I was putting it_. _Oh well._ Treating Ron's gift with the respect which it merited by virtue of the thought that had gone into it was not her top priority at the moment.

She sprayed the perfume liberally over her clothes and herself. The stench quickly grew so strong that she was forced to pry open the solitary window. But the effect was exactly what she had been going for: her clothes were clearly dirty, but, in the way of the ladies of the night, she had disguised the filth with scent.

Now for the really not fun part. Hermione pulled a small case out of the depths of her luggage and carried it with her to a dingy, cracked mirror hanging on the wall to the right of the door. She opened it there and slathered its contents over her face. Pale foundation, a shade too much blush, and bright red lipstick perfectly applied. Last, the eyes. This, she actually would enjoy. Thick mascara, eyeliner, and shimmering gold eye shadow, the kind that could be classy, but on certain women just looked vulgar. Cheap earrings that a Muggle friend had sent to her for her twelfth birthday (via her parents, of course), ridiculous gold high heels, and she was done. She looked a right harlot, and it was just going on full dark. The less she stood out, the better.

Hermione repacked her suitcase, cramming her school clothes into it, and cast a Disillusionment Charm on herself, shuddering at the unpleasant cold. She left the room, shutting the door softly after her.

Luckily, the barmaid wasn't looking in the direction of the curtain when Hermione went into the main room, or she would have seen it swing forward and to the side, and flutter gently as if in a breeze, finally coming to rest in its original position. Hermione walked softly through the room, relying on the dim lighting to aid her camouflage, and came to a stop beside the door. There she waited until a large group of men entered and cast the countercharm, letting their bodies hide her. As soon as she felt the warmth spreading to her legs, and the crowd of males began to disperse, she slipped out the door.

The streetlights all over London were on, but here they were somewhat different from the others. They were nothing but great torches every thirty feet or so, all the way down the long, winding street and they seemed to Hermione to cause more shadows than illumination.

Perhaps that was a good thing. Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to see what the night hid. What she _could_ see was bad enough. A pair of prostitutes displayed their wares in a lighter area in front of what must be a club, paying absolutely no attention to the man lying near their feet, under a sign for the Star Motel. A sign on a nearby shop read _Borgin and Burkes: Unusual Artifacts_ and she remembered with a chill the shop in which Malfoy—Draco, that is—had purchased the Hand of Glory.

What astounded Hermione was the bizarre mixture of Dark Arts haven and red light district. Multi-coloured lightning came from a niche in which crouched a wizened old man, cackling evilly. Jazzy music floated from a dance hall. Something slithered through the gutter. A man passing her cradled in his arms a strange bundle, which made squeaking sounds. At this last, Hermione immediately thought of Norbert, and her mind turned to Hagrid.

_How can he still look at Riddle so fondly? You can tell he doesn't even blame him. Later he will. Later, when he knows that Riddle is Voldemort, he will, but for now… Poor Hagrid. _And Riddle! _That arrogant _Slytherin_ just sat there and played the martyr._ Hermione glared off into space, thinking of how she would like to see Riddle fall.

A denizen of London's darker regions brushed her in passing, jolting her back to reality. Right. She really ought to find somewhere to stay. Her eye went to the Star Motel. _No. Absolutely not_. But why not? She was already here. Would this really cause her to sink any lower? _After all, it's not as though I'll be engaging in the profession of their usual patrons._ A moment passed, and her mind was made up. The Star Motel it would be.

She walked through a creaky door, into a room that reeked of cigarette ash and sex. The walls were a splotchy brown and largely covered by tacky pin-ups and flyers for various shady events and hang-outs. Underneath a gaudy poster advertising Binkley's Bubbling Brew—some kind of beer—there was a battered desk, before which stood an obese quinquagenarian wearing far more frills and cheap jewelry than Hermione's cousin Wanda had in her dress-up chest at home. She was scolding the plain young girl behind the desk, who was nodding her head like a bobble-head doll.

Hermione cleared her throat, and both women turned their heads towards her. The change on the elder's face was startling. Her harridan's glare vanished instantly, and was replaced by a sickly smile.

"I don't believe I know you, dearie." She looked behind Hermione. "Where's the clien—lucky gentleman?"

Hermione's face went hot. "I'm going to be alone tonight."

The lady's—it is to be understood that the author uses the term loosely—eyebrows shot up. "I see. Well, it's better that way, I suppose. Less competition for my girls."

Hermione was forced to revise her understanding of the situation. _So she's not just the proprietor of this house, she's also a madam. How sad, that poverty has forced her to take two jobs._

"So, you'll be staying the whole night, then?"

Hermione looked at the piece of parchment affixed by a Sticking charm to the front desk. It read:

_Hourly rate…5 Sickles_

_Nightly rate…1 Galleon, 3 Sickles_

That was absurdly cheap, all things considered. "Actually, I think I will stay for the week. Perhaps longer."

As much as the woman tried to act as though Hermione had said nothing unusual, her expression betrayed her. "Kiki, show our guest to her room."

Kiki obediently came out from behind the desk and motioned listlessly for Hermione to follow her.

The exhausted-looking girl led Hermione all the way down a hallway—painted fluorescent pink in sharp contrast to the lobby—to the door at the very end. The scarlet paint was peeling and the number _119_, which had been painted on, was barely visible. Kiki shoved a brass key into Hermione's face. "The door's magicked against Alohomora, but if you want anything more, you'll have to do the spells yourself."

"Erm, okay."

She expected the girl to leave then, but her companion stood there, just looking at her. "Was there something else?"

"You can pay for the whole week or just the first night, but Madam Gladys wants money in advance."

"Oh, right." Of, course. With this sort of clientele, one couldn't be too careful. Hermione fished in her bag and came out with her money purse. She had taken the precaution of placing a Muffliato on it so the clink of the coins would be less obvious (there was no advantage in borrowing a supply of money from Dumbledore, at the cost of her lessons with the first-years, if she just got it stolen). She was glad of it now, seeing how Kiki's dull eyes sharpened and focused at the sight of money. "Let's see… eight Galleons, four Sickles. That's through next Friday night."

Kiki let Hermione drop the money into her outstretched hand, and then turned and plodded back the way she had come.

Hermione twisted the key in the lock, pressing her shoulder against the door when it stuck, and entered her home for the next few days.

The first thing she noticed was the cold. The window was broken, and the Spello-tape stretched over the opening had peeled away. _Right. First order of business, a fire._ She chose a spot by the wall, muttered a containment charm, another to keep it from scorching the floor, and then "Incendio!" Flames burst from the floor and expanded to fill the circle she had allotted, but not further.

Now. The door. She wasn't expecting to have any trouble, but in this sort of establishment, she could never be too sure. She re-enlarged her luggage, hunted in the depths of her trunk, and found the smaller box in which she had placed her shrunken library. Now she restored it to its former size and piled her books on the bed, looking for one in particular.

Having found The Paranoid Pureblood's Primer of Property Protection, which, she had long ago decided, was the only one of the [Insert "P" adjective here] Pureblood series that was actually useful, Hermione repacked the other volumes and replaced the whole lot in her trunk.

She flipped to Chapter 4: _The Public Rooms_ and skimmed it. She finally chose three of the spells, one of which recognized the wand, one the spell's caster, and one the first person to touch the doorframe with his right hand. She cast them, pressed her hand against the door, and turned the bolt on the door. Now, to sleep. It was early yet, but she was inexplicably bone-weary.

She changed into more comfortable—and decent—clothes and cast a Scourgify on the sheets. They became several shades lighter, and she gagged. Then she collapsed onto the bed.

Hermione should have known that it wouldn't be that easy. Just as her eyelids were fluttering shut of their own accord, she heard a giggle, the sound of a door slamming nearby, a minute's silence, and then a low moan. _The walls are definitely too thin. How could 'Madam Gladys' have charmed the door against intrusion and forgotten a Silencing charm? But then, I suppose since most of her customers are similarly occupied, they don't really mind._

Well, _she_ minded. She tried a pillow over her head, but gave up that bright idea when she lost her ability to breathe. She got up and transformed two of the bed-knobs into earplugs. _Much better._ Then, and only then, was she able to go to sleep.

* * *

A/N: I know, I know, it's been FOREVER since the last update. But much has been going on for me. Poor excuse, but the only one I have.

I couldn't resist making the Malfoys a ridiculously large family, á la the Weasleys. And I thought it would be nice to take a closer look at Riddle's orphanage.

I chose jasmine perfume because it was the type typically the type worn by prostitutes in New Orleans, which is supposedly where the name for jazz music came from.

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	10. The Bookstore

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah. Non sum Rowling. Esne Rowling? Non cogitabam te esse. Igitur componamus tacere de dominio Harrii Pottris.

A/N: I believe the above Latin to be correct, but please tell me if there are any mistakes I missed.

* * *

Chapter 10

_In which Hermione gets a job._

Sunlight streamed in through the bars of a single window at the end of the room farthest from the door. The rays illuminated the face of a teenager lying in bed, apparently asleep. Around him, smaller boys tiptoed about, getting dressed, making their beds, and otherwise preparing for another day in Hell. Tom Riddle watched their attempts to be simultaneously silent and speedy through slitted eyes. A herd of centaurs galloping through the room would have been quieter. But of course he couldn't tell _them_ that; they would only wonder why the fearsome Tom Riddle was rambling on about fairytale creatures.

He sat up. The effect was that of a kraken rising from the sea in front of a group of hapless sailors. Half of the children scattered and dove for cover, and the other half remained standing exactly where they had been, rigid with fear. Riddle resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Stretching, he acted as though he had no idea why they hid. "Frankie? Jamie? Walt?" At this last he stood. "Why are you all hiding? And you, Richard, you act as though you've seen a ghost."

Richard practically whimpered with terror and clutched tightly on to the hand of an even littler boy, age perhaps five, whose presence Riddle had just noticed. "And who's this?"

Still quivering with fear, Richard did not answer.

"His name is Hadrian." Catherine appeared in the doorway. Riddle had heard her footsteps in the hall long before she had actually entered the room, but he quickly swiveled his head towards her, feigning surprise. "Good morning." Looking back at Hadrian, he remarked, "A big name for a little boy."

"He'll grow into it." Catherine entered the room, the light making a halo of her wavy locks, and scooped Hadrian up into her arms, clutching him protectively to her chest.

**Ah, so she still has that absurd desire to save the poor waifs from big, bad Tom Riddle. Good for her. Pity it won't help.** "I'm sure he will." Tom smiled angelically at the little boy, who, to Riddle's genuine shock, offered a tiny grin in return. Tom stared at the child. Had he not seen how the others feared this strange, older newcomer? Perhaps he was just masochistic. Anyway, he bore watching.

"Catherine, may I speak to you for a moment?"

She stiffened and he mentally derided her pitiful inability to hide her emotions. "I'm a bit busy at the moment. Maybe later—"

"This will only take a second."

She glanced around for an escape, but no opportunity for flight presented itself. "Richard, help Hadrian get dressed. The rest of you—" she addressed the other boys, some of whom were still cowering under the furniture "—finish up in here and go down to breakfast."

She set Hadrian down, whirled around, and practically ran out of the room. Tom followed at a more leisurely pace. When they were a little ways down the dingy hallway, she spun and faced him. "What was it you wanted to say?"

"I was wondering about—Hadrian, you said?—Why is he here?"

"His parents were killed in a car crash, and his grandmother is too old and sick to take care of him." Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to know?"

Riddle pretended mild surprise at her suspicion. "He's the only new inhabitant I've seen here. I was just curious. I only brought you out here because I didn't want to ask in front of him."

"I'm sure."

He watched as she turned on her heel and stalked down the hall.

* * *

The same sunlight that had played across Tom Riddle's face now filtered in through a motel window in an even less reputable part of London. The figure it illuminated had been awake for more than an hour already. Hermione was sitting on her bed, reading, with her wand hovering above her left shoulder, a _Lumos _augmenting the weak natural light. She was shaking her head, marveling at the gross inaccuracies of the tome on Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, which had been written by one Proteus Lovegood. Some of the information the author stated to support his Snorkack research was just blatantly untrue.

For example, surely if dragon blood could be used as "a perfume which draws these elusive creatures out of hiding," Dumbledore would have noticed this when he found the other twelve uses. And she was almost positive that Acromantula venom did not give the Snorkack, or any other magical creature, the power to levitate. And what was that about vampire semen? Oh. Now _that_ was just ridiculous.

Hermione snapped the book shut in disgust and rose from the bed. _So the Lovegoods weren't sane even sixty years ago._ _It makes me wonder what Luna's mother was like, that she married into the family._

She dug in her suitcase for a nicer set of clothing than what she had worn last night. She wanted something clean and relatively decent—she _was_ going to look for a job—but not too nice, for this was still Knockturn Alley, after all. A short black skirt and top fit those criteria well enough for her purposes.

Her stomach growled, but she had no food in her pack. She would leave Knockturn Alley for a little bit, perhaps head to Diagon Alley. There she would grab a bite of breakfast before she set off on her job hunt.

Neither Kiki nor Madam Gladys was in sight when Hermione stepped into the lobby. This was something of a mercy; she looked nothing like their usual customer, and they thought her odd enough already. She stepped out into the street, which was gray and sober in sharp contrast to the colour of the nightlife. Gone were the small-time criminals who dealt in sex and magical drugs. The diurnal inhabitants of the place were, to a man, concerned with the Dark Arts. And Hermione didn't fit in.

She walked to the end of the alley that was connected to the outside world and waited there until a gaggle of fresh-faced youths passed on their way to Diagon Alley. She slipped in among them and followed them there. Doubtless she could have left the alley alone, but when one was staying in a place like Knockturn Alley, any stealth training one has had in previous years tends to kick in and one tends to automatically work at being inconspicuous.

Hermione ordered a pasty, fended off the halfhearted advances of the teenage boy serving them, and ate slowly, pondering her current situation. Then she threw her rubbish in a bin and headed back towards Knockturn Alley.

Every step she took back towards the dark eeriness of her current residence was harder. She wanted to stay in Diagon Alley, among the merry shoppers and vivid umbrellas, but if she stayed here for the holiday, she was bound to run into someone she knew from school, and that would raise unpleasant questions. Just being here for meals was risky enough.

In Knockturn Alley, it was highly unlikely that anyone would know her, and even if they did, two things would be true which would help to ease her mind about the danger.

Firstly, they would not expect her to have family or friends with her, as they would in Diagon Alley. Knockturn Alley was not a place for social gatherings. Thus she would not have to explain why she had no one to whom to introduce her school friends.

Secondly, anyone wishing to interrogate Hermione about why she was in Knockturn Alley would first have to answer the question, "And why are you here?" Most people down this particular street were unwilling to state their business.

So, Knockturn Alley it was to be, if she wanted to be safe. And years of fighting a war against the most powerful Dark Wizard the world had ever known had made safety Hermione's top priority, ranking well above comfort and short-term pleasure. _And into the alley of disrepute walks Hermione._

On her way to the motel, she had noted, across from Borgin and Burkes, Alexandria: Rare Books. It was here that she had intended to seek employment, but as she looked through the windows into a room that appeared to have no light save for a bluish glow from the depths, she reconsidered. _Books are all very well and good, but I'm not sure this is exactly my cup of tea. _But, despite what the Sorting Hat thought, she was a _Gryffindor_, by Merlin, and she wasn't going to back out just because the environment into which she was about to step was a little bit creepy. All right, a lot creepy. _Besides, if I walked into what was basically the front for a brothel, I can enter a bookstore._ So she did.

It smelled much the way used/rare bookstores often do, of old parchment and dust. Letting the door swing to, Hermione closed her eyes and inhaled as deeply as she could. _There's nothing like a good bookstore._ For a moment, she could almost forget that instead of being in a respectable used bookstore in muggle London, rather than in an environment of shaky legality.

But when she opened her eyes and looked about her, her eyes gradually becoming used to the near-total darkness, her location came rushing back. The stacks of books were old and leather, as was traditional in such a setting, but many of the titles were in ancient Runes or ancient Greek, with Latin and the modern languages greatly underrepresented. The titles Hermione could read were all along the lines of _The Science behind Mudblood Inferiority_ and _The Noble Art of Poison_. Well, wasn't this exactly where she had pictured herself working once she got out of school? _Selling books of eugenics and murder. What fun._

Atop the precarious piles of books were assorted random objects, among them a rolled scroll, which must have come from the back wall, the shelves of which held many similar, a broken wand, and a large painting that looked like a graphic depiction of some kind of torture, though it was difficult to be sure in the dim room. _I had no idea the human body could contort like that. _Hermione grimaced and shivered in spite of herself. The air of creepiness, already great, was increased by the fact that the only light in the room was a blue sphere of light hovering some eight feet off the ground in the center of the room.

Her head snapped to the left as she saw a flicker of movement on the shadows, and then a pair of bright green eyes with slitted pupils. She didn't really need the waving tail to identify the bookstore's watchman as a cat.

Specifically, a small grey cat that was probably very young and didn't seem to have mastered feline superiority. He seemed more curious than anything else. From what she could tell at first glance, he didn't tend towards any of the peculiarities common among animals routinely exposed to magic. _Still, the eyes are creepy._

Hermione wasn't all that fond of cats, to be honest. Crookshanks had been the exception; he was big and fluffy and somehow familiar. Other felines, however, were almost as alien to her as dragons or mermaids, and without the benefit of having magic to explain their oddities.

And so Hermione made no move to get to know the cat, or even to acknowledge its presence. She simply examined the décor of the room. Her eyes fixed briefly on the floating sphere, and then on the candleholders along the wall, the occupants of which were stubby and covered in dribbled wax. From there her gaze traveled to the shelves, which took up the greatest part of the area, running from where Hermione was standing to the far wall. At a quick count, she would guess that there were twelve, but it was difficult to tell. Her eyes were playing tricks with her in the eerie light of the mysterious orb.

She heard a creaking from the back of the store, and then footsteps on the wooden floor.

The man's bulbous, bespectacled nose was first to appear, followed by his bald pate and gnarled hands, which held tightly to a simple, crooked dark wood cane, almost invisible in the darkness. As the doddering Methuselah approached, his eyes gleamed, and she saw that they were opaque. _If he's blind, then why bother with light?_ Because the store was open, of course. _But then, why not make it comfortable for the customers, and light the room?_

"It never goes off completely, even when the store's closed, which it is now." He stopped and hacked for a moment. "Nature of the magic."

"How did you know…?"

"First question they always ask."

"Oh… Did you say the store was closed? I can come back later."

"I don't open until one on Sundays." He continued, answering Hermione's next question, "Even I need a break once in a while, and it just seemed best to go along with the Muggle tradition. Makes it easier for businessmen who work in both worlds.

"But as long as you're here, I may as well help you. What was it you wanted?"

"Well," she swallowed. Her plan, which had made so much sense earlier, now seemed a bit ridiculous. _Who's to say that he needs a worker?_ And even if he did need one, why should he hire her? She had no references from purebloods associated with the Dark Arts. He might think she was a Ministry spy. She certainly wasn't _dressed_ like the typical denizens of Knockturn Alley, nor did she talk like them, or walk like them... _Stop panicking!_ she chided herself. _You're being stupid. Just _ask_ already._

"I came in to ask for a job."

His bushy brows shot up. "_Did_ you? And why would one such as you seek employment here?"

"One such as me?"

"Let's talk about you for a moment, shall we? You're a young girl—but that much is self-evident, and in any case, doesn't preclude your working here.

"Now, your accent. _Very_ proper. The faintest hint of a drawl, but that seems to be an affectation." Hermione flushed. She had been trying to slip into the pureblood vernacular, but it clearly hadn't worked. _If this gutter-dweller_—not insult, just fact—_can tell that I'm working at it, how transparent must I be to the purebloods themselves?_

"Mind you, it's a very good imitation drawl. I've heard but one better. But you lay it on a bit thick. Only the snottiest of bluebloods actually talk like that. Lighten up a bit, and you'll have it down."

Hermione squirmed. "The job?"

"Ah, yes. As it happens, I do have something. I will leave tomorrow and will be gone for the week preceding Christmas. I was planning to close the shop while I was gone, but I would rather not lose the income. In my original plans, before my sister decided she could not do without me, the shop was to have been open until Christmas Eve, on which day it was to close and remain closed until the 27th. If this is to happen, I will need someone to stay in the shop until I return on that day." He paused, somehow managing to convey the impression of a look weighted with significance, without actually seeing her. "That would give whomever I hired more than enough time to get back to school. No, don't protest. You reek of boarding school. My guess is Hogwarts. Possibly Ravenclaw, but with that accent, more likely a Slytherin. Anyway, that person would take care of customers, both buying and selling, and would have to be willing to respond immediately if my security wards went off."

_Perfect! He gets a holiday and I get a job that I won't have to feel like I'm abandoning when I go off to Madam Chevalier's._

"I have just one question. Why should I hire _you_? You are obviously too high-class"-he placed ironic emphasis on that-"to be asking for this for on-the-level reasons, I have no assurances as to your reliability and honesty, and, even if you do a good job, it's a foregone conclusion that you'll never be back. Why shouldn't I hire someone who wants to work here full-time, and who won't disappear when the week is out?"

Hermione drew in a breath. He had brought up all of the points that had made her hesitate to ask the question in the first place. "Firstly, I don't think you yourself are so low-born that you can afford to reverse discriminate. Secondly, you would doubtless have little trouble setting up some wards that can at least prevent me from robbing you blind—" she halted awkwardly, "—(no pun intended), though I'm not sure what you can do about my reliability or lack thereof. Lastly, you said you were leaving tomorrow. You don't have time to find someone else to stay with the shop. If you don't hire me, the shop is closed and it's a certainty that you won't make any money. But if you _do_ hire me, than you have the possibility of gaining a great deal."

There was a moment of silence, and then the old man turned and began to hobble away. Hermione's shoulders sagged. And then he spoke. "Well, the cat likes you." _That's odd. Cats hate me._ Crookshanks was the sole exception, and she suspected that that was his Kneazle blood.

"You'll need to be here by eight on weekdays—we officially open at eight-thirty, one on Sundays. No matter what the day, we close at eight. If you wish, it is acceptable for you to take a lunch break at noon. I would prefer that you get food and bring it back, but if that is not possible, you may go out. Be back by one." He stopped.

"Why are you still standing there?" She hurried after him, and he walked on towards the back of the store.

He led her to a smaller room, and indicated that it was his office. This room was completely dark until he murmured "_Lumos!_", at which point the room became as bright as day. Hermione, whose eyes had adjusted to fit the half-light of the main chamber, was dazzled.

When the spots faded from her eyes, Hermione saw that on one side of the room, there was a chintzy armchair not unlike those she was accustomed to Dumbledore conjuring. Beside this was a long, dark wood table, on which rested a set of tarnished silver scales, along with a black, ink-spattered ledger. On the other side of the room were two shelves of books, one full and the other, smaller one, nearly empty.

"The smaller one," explained Mr. Hedgewick—for so the shopkeeper had identified himself—"holds books that customers have specifically requested that I obtain. Those are waiting to be picked up. I send an owl notifying the client as soon as I find a copy meeting his price and condition specifications—which can take years—and he has two months to come for it. If the time elapses without the client coming here or sending for it, or if he sends an owl to the effect that his interest has waned, I put it either on the shelves or one the other bookshelf here.

"That shelf holds books that I consider too rare to be placed on the shelf in full view of the common folk. If a book that you deem quite rare comes to you while I am away, place it on this shelf.

"I allow very few people into this room to see these books. There are wards, which I will teach you to deactivate and raise again, but I wish to take no risks. The only people who see this shelf are those who are both wandless and carrying gold, and those who have shopped here for many years without my having any problem with them. The first category you can judge for yourself. As for the second, there is a list in the ledger. But if you don't feel comfortable, if anything seems off, you don't have to take him in here."

"If someone meeting one or both of the criteria comes into the store and wants to enter this office, mark his name and the date and time in this log." Mr. Hedgewick held up a red book, somewhat slimmer than the ledger, but still substantial. "You probably won't have anyone ask to see the rare book shelf. Even if someone does, the likelihood is that you won't let him."

He went on to demonstrate for her the working of the silver scales to determine how much to pay a seller for his book, and to impress upon her the importance of keeping the ledger accurate down to the last detail. He revealed to her some of the various wards on the shop (though not the ones intended to insure _her_ honesty) and showed her the cat food for Aristophanes. Finally, he pressed an alarm into her hands—it would go off if the shop was broken into—and ushered her out the door with orders to be at the shop at seven-forty-five the next morning, so that he could give her the keys to the shop and leave.

The door clicked shut behind her and Hermione just stood on the pavement, dazed. Despite her attempt at confidence—I _will_ get a job—she really hadn't expected to find one so easily, especially not one that suited her so well. The hours were fairly reasonable, the pay was better than she had expected—four Galleons, fifteen Sickles, with a bonus of two Galleons if she sold more than twenty-five Galleon's worth in a day (not likely, but still)—and she would be surrounded by books all day, even if she was unable to read many of them and was repulsed by others.

When she finally set herself in motion, heading back to Diagon Alley, she had to force herself not to skip down the street. If she worked five days, as she had planned, she would have just over thirty Galleons. She had had to borrow ninety Galleons from Dumbledore to pay for clothes befitting a pureblood. She still had a few Galleons left, even after paying for her room for the week. _The lessons with the first-years won't pay for all of what he gave me, not by a long shot. If I give him, say fifteen Galleons, spending eight on lodging and keeping the rest for whatever happens after graduation, then I can feel just a little bit better about it._

Hermione stopped dead, and a chill ran down her spine. When had she stopped thinking of it as a given that she would be gone long before graduation and started believing that she would have to make a new life for herself in these dark times? _I can't think like that! I won't!_

She made her way to Diagon Alley at a half-run, trying to outrun the sinking feeling as it came to her that she should probably resign herself to the idea of living in the forties. _Please, no_.

She halted abruptly at the end of Knockturn Alley and waited for an opportune moment to slip into the crowds going past. Her timing was perfect, and she once again exited the Dark Arts-oriented street with the minimum of fuss. But what good did that do when she had no destination in mind?

She ambled up and down the thoroughfare for an hour or so, eventually taking refuge from the crowds in Magical Menagerie. A strange haven indeed, for in here her ears were assailed by the howling and cawing and screeching of an untold number of magical animals. But as she headed deeper into the shop, the sounds blended together and the cacophony became a sort of animal symphony. It was almost peaceful once she got used to it.

Hermione was observing a curiously alert black rat when she felt something on her leg. She jumped and looked down. At her feet was a tailless Jack Russell terrier puppy. Or was it..? _Not a terrier. A Crup._ _Just what I need, a dog that hates Muggles, attacking me. _That _wouldn't look suspicious at all, considering I'm supposed to be a Pureblood._

But the creature, who was sniffing her shoe, didn't seem as though he was likely to turn mean any time soon, so she bent down to examine him more closely. He wagged the stump of his tail at her. "Hey, boy."

"He likes you." The speaker was a young, bespectacled woman with thick, black hair, who had come out from behind the rat cage. She smiled. "What'll you call him, then?"

Hermione was startled. "Oh, I don't want to buy him."

"You don't have to." The shop girl pointed to a box that bore the legend:

_Free Crup Puppies!_

_House-trained, good with children and other animals._

_Feed meat only._

_WARNING: Do not place in a household with squibs or muggles. Exercise extreme caution in Muggle-populated areas._

"He's the last one left. The females always go fast, because they're meaner, and he was the only male. No one wants the boys, because people only buy a crup to keep muggles off their property, and the males have much sweeter personalities as a rule. The oldest female in this particular litter only reacted well to purebloods. She nearly bit the hand off a half-blood who decided she wanted a puppy. This one loves Muggleborns like anything, is fine around Squibs, and he can tolerate Muggles if they don't get too close. And you don't seem to be looking for a guard dog, so you don't need a mean one."

"I'd love to, but I really can't. I'm in school. Besides—" but she stopped herself. The ministry wouldn't regulate Crup ownership until the 1950's.

"Okay, but if no one takes him by Christmas, we're going to have to got rid of him, one way or another."

"What do you mean, 'one way or another'?"

"My mother—she's the owner—will probably put him down. Not using an Unforgiveable. Her husband is a muggle veterinarian. He can't come near, of course, but he'll tell her what to do and give her the supplies."

Hermione felt a twinge of horror. But she really couldn't take him. _Wait a second. Riddle has a snake that he makes no attempt to conceal. And doesn't some fifth year have a bat? Neither of those fits under cats, rats, and toads…_ Of course_. _Dippet, the fool, must not restrict the students' pets. Not until Dumbledore assumed the office of headmaster would Hogwarts have the sense to see that it was probably not wise for students to be allowed to bring fire slugs, malacaws, and the like to school. That lapse in judgment was probably in Hogwarts: A History, but, contrary to popular belief, she did not have the tome memorized. Just the parts she found interesting, and regulations regarding students' pets had never fascinated her. She had probably read over it without giving it a second thought.

_Well, no one would doubt that I was a pureblood if I got a Crup._ But there was another problem. _If—When—I go back, I'd have to leave him here, and that wouldn't be fair to him._

Hermione looked at the creature, who cocked his head at her, bright eyes fixed on her face. True, it wouldn't be fair to abandon him, but she was sure one of her Pureblood colleagues would take him. And if she left him here...

"So what do I need to know about how to care for him?" The girl beamed at her, and Hermione saw how much pain letting the creature die would have caused her.

Half an hour later, Hermione walked out of Magical Menagerie with the terrier trotting behind her, and a package of supplies under her arm. So excited was the young lady that Hermione had saved the crup that she gave her everything she could possibly need to keep a happy, healthy pet, and more besides. Hermione was the proud possessor of a leash—solely for appearances when formality was needed, crups never strayed—a grooming brush—_for a short-haired animal, honestly_—miscellaneous toys and treats, as well as various odds and ends.

_I really should stop going in there. I keep coming out with pets I'm not sure I want._

Having a Crup by her side did have some benefits. As Hermione returned to Knockturn Alley, the other denizens gave her a wide berth.

* * *

A/N: A Crup is a wizard-bred dog that is very loyal to wizards and ferocious to muggles. They have forked tails, so their owners are required to crop their tails at six-eight weeks.

Fire slugs live in the Brazilian rainforest. Malacaws are lobster-like creatures whose bite inflicts bad luck upon the recipient.

Sorry if the long bit in the shop was boring. There were things I needed to establish for your benefit and mine.

I was reading a review as I wrote this, and a reviewer made the excellent point that Tom is more sociable than he was portrayed in the books. I wanted to address this, since I don't like reading stories where the main characters are ridiculously o.o.c.

While she is an amazing author in many respects, JKR is not perfect. In my opinion, her tragic flaw is her tendency to slip into archetypes. Ron is the sidekick. Hermione is the geeky girl who turns out to be hot. Harry is the tragic hero who feels that no one understands him, and who falls in love with his best friend's sister (does this not sound like the insert-name-here type of fantasy character?). Ginny is quite the little Mary Sue (beautiful, funny, smart, kind, totally in love with our hero, with whom she cannot have a relationship because of circumstances beyond their control) at times. Dumbledore is the wise mentor who turns out to be fallible after all. Sirius is the cool surrogate father. And Tom Riddle is the evil overlord. That's it. He's a total sociopath.

I'm not buying it. Yes, there's symbolism (loveless union coming about because of the potion, etc.), but it seems that Tom never really had a chance. So I have decided to give him a real personality besides "Die, Mudblood scum!" while trying to stay fairly close to the books as far as his cold demeanor.

Also, I believe I stated somewhere that this story is A.U. This is such a convenient cure-all. I really hate it when authors use it to cover inconsistencies, oddly enough, within the story itself. This is not A.U. This is what is known as a major screw-up. If the plot is so complicated that you can't keep the facts straight, chances are that the reader can't either.

I shall try not to do that. But the story is A.U. There is no way in Hell that it will come out anything like the books. As for the standard pairings: Epilogue? What epilogue?

In the next chapter, I will give a day-by-day account of what is going on with our main characters.

Give me an R! Give me an E! Give me a V! Give me an I! Give me an E! Give me a W! What does that spell? REVIEW!


	11. The Chocolate

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah. Non sum Rowling. Esne Rowling? Non cogitabam te esse. Igitur componamus tacere de dominio Harrii Pottris.

A/N: I believe the above Latin to be correct, but please tell me if there are any mistakes I missed.

This chapter is pretty short, as it's more a bridge to Chapter 12 than anything else. Necessary, but not something I needed to draw out.

* * *

Chapter 11

_In which our heroine is bored and our hero friendly._

Hermione awoke early the next morning in order to be ready for her job. Sitting up in bed, she nearly on trod on the crup, who was asleep on the floor. She nudged him and said gently, "Argus." The crup's ears immediately perked up.

She had decided on the animal's name the previous afternoon, and had spent the Sunday evening getting him used to it. He had taken to it quickly and by the time Hermione was ready to retire for the night, he clearly understood it as his own.

"Come on, boy. You have to move." There was barely enough space for her to move between the bed and the wall into the rest of the tiny room as it was, and her new pet had made it impossible. Argus lifted his head and looked at her incredulously, giving Hermione the distinct impression of, _You're kidding, right?_ "No, really. Let me pass, and then you can go back to sleep." _I've had him for less than a day, and already I'm talking to him like he's going to answer back. Maybe Pansy Parkinson was right every time she insulted me: I am crazy._

Finally, she hopped over him, swaying as she landed on the tiptoe of one sock and almost toppling over. Of course, he immediately rose, wagging his stump of a tail and leaving a clear path from her bed. She glared at him and he looked back, brown eyes guileless.

She dressed quickly and ate a bit of bread she had left over from yesterday's dinner, which she had had in a pub in Knockturn Alley, huddled over her meager fare, relying on Argus to keep shady characters at bay.

"Tempus!" _Oh, Merlin!_ It was seven forty-two. She had only three minutes to get from her room to the bookstore. And she absolutely _refused_ to be late to work on her first day.

Hermione left her self-appointed guard dog at home and practically ran down the hallway, sprinting through the lobby. Kiki shot her a disinterestedly disapproving look, which she employed great force of will to ignore. In her frazzled state of mind, she wanted to stop and shriek at the young woman, who somehow gave offense by reason of her apathy.

Hermione skidded into the bookstore panting and clutching her side, but a _Tempus_ charm cast between gasps for air revealed that it was seven forty-four. She had made it.

"Ahem." Despite its being nominally the same sound that Umbridge the toad was wont to make, it had none of the High Inquisitor's grating quality. Hermione greeted her new employer breathlessly.

"G—good morning, Mr. Hedgewick."

"Is it?"

Hermione didn't know how to reply to that, so she kept silent.

"Well, I must be off now." And without further ceremony or warning, he disapparated and she was left alone with Aristophanes, who watched her with an adorable kitten look on his heart-shaped face.

Hermione sighed. "Well, I suppose I had better get started." And she began to clean the shop, wiping off the glass cases with the damp rag left for that purpose, shelving books that careless customers had replaced incorrectly or failed to shelve at all—there weren't many of those; she had a feeling the proprietor kept an orderly shop—and generally tidying up as per Mr. Hedgewick's instructions.

She halted for twenty minutes to aid a grubby man who was looking for a specific book on magical poisons. As she was wrapping it in brown paper or him, she wondered, _I almost feel like I should refuse to sell it to him. It's perfectly obvious that he's not interested in the theory of it._ But she dutifully took his money and bowed him out the door—magical women would have none of this courtesy business, it was a bow for them—because she was in Knockturn Alley, after all. _For all that the owner seemed well-bred and respectable, this shop's patrons are going to be the sort who dabble in the dark arts. Surely the disturbing titles and grotesque cover illustrations on many the books sold here are ample reminders of that._

The next two customers who came in did not require Hermione's aid in finding anything, and left her alone until they needed her to ring their purchases up. She finished her work of cleaning the shop and settled down with a book. Never Look a Gift Snake in the Eye: My Life as Godfrey Darwin, Basilisk Hunter Extraordinaire, was truly a fascinating read.

When Hermione next cast _Tempus_, it was five past noon. She placed a scrap of paper in her book, fed Aristophanes, who fell to with relish, and locked up the shop.

The afternoon saw three more customers, including a sneering boy with a Russian accent who purchased a book on fifth-century centaur hunts. Hermione was strongly reminded of Draco Malfoy, and it took all of her self-control not to brain him with Godfrey Darwin's memoir, which she had almost finished. It really was _very_ interesting, once one got past the author's inflated ego.

At seven thirty, Hermione finished the book and returned it to its place in the section marked _Autobiographies, Biographies, and Memoirs._ Having made sure that she had noted all six transactions correctly, she wandered about the shop for the last half an hour, Aristophanes prowling behind her. She could have _sworn_ that when he pounced on a book and she had to pull him off before he shredded the cover, he'd been trying for her heel.

Alexandria was a relatively legitimate business, one in which people didn't worry about being observed, so it operated mostly in daylight hours, but as Hermione headed back to her hotel, she saw that business on Knockturn Alley was just beginning. Even Borgin and Burkes, which professed legality, would remain open until midnight for certain of its customers who required extra discretion.

Perfumed with jasmine and various fouler smells as the night air was, Hermione was glad for a breath of fresh—well, sort of—air. Hermione had, after all, just spent eight straight hours in a used bookstore, which, while a comforting atmosphere despite its clientele, was nothing if not stuffy.

Hermione had never thought of Knockturn Alley as beautiful, and it was hardly scenic, but the striking combination of the vividness of its painted ladies and the grime of its poor, who mixed with ambitious lords in dark cloaks, actually took her breath away for a moment. She stood before Alexandria looking down the sinister alley and felt, just for one second, that she could live here.

Then she felt a pull on her cloak. Whirling around, she saw a grubby urchin digging in the pockets. Fighting down compassion, she waved him away. He cursed her vehemently, making startlingly accurate guesses as to her low parentage, and she actually flinched. Of course, she had heard the term "Mudblood" many times since she had arrived in the 40's—at the time it was socially acceptable—but never applied to her.

In one sense, that was a good thing. In another… it didn't mean that she was forgetting herself, did it? Just because she had stopped thinking of herself as a Mudblood? _I can't forget. I can't think 'Oh, that's Marie de Martineaux, not I,' because if "Mudblood" is anyone, it is Hermione Granger. And I am still Hermione Granger, no matter what the rest of my hou—the Slytherins think._

And with that, she marched into the Star Motel, narrowly avoiding collision with a balding man. He had red smears on his face and neck, and a scantily-clad woman with smudged makeup was preceding him into one of the five hallways branching off of the lobby, beckoning him seductively. He didn't look as though he needed any encouragement to follow her. _Isn't it a bit early in the evening? Has he had time to get properly sloshed yet?_

Judging by his state of imbalance, he had managed somehow.

Back in her room, Hermione had to put up with five minutes of Argus sniffing her to determine that Aristophanes was not a threat. A wizarding breed the crup might be, but a dog is a dog.

She spent the rest of her evening researching time travel. Several books claimed what they claimed was a surefire method for building a functioning time-turner, some complex, others simple, but she didn't know which would actually work. Her plan was to try them all, in order of most likely, on small life-forms, and set a timer on them. If it worked, the animal should disappear and then reappear a few moments later.

Meanwhile, she would investigate the possibility of stealing a ministry time-turner. That was preferable to building one herself, since it would be almost sure to work, having been submitted to rigorous testing.

She knew, of course, that she couldn't go straight back to her own home. Despite the danger, she would have to first go to 1971, to take a look at the bottom of the stone snake. She had been distracted, since she couldn't complete her mission in this time, but she had to keep it ever in mind.

_Constant vigilance!_ And so at last Hermione drifted off to sleep in a cloud of nostalgia.

* * *

Catherine had not told Riddle the whole truth the previous day, in that when he said that he believed Hadrian was the only new addition to the orphanage, she had not contradicted him. This reticence was in the hope that, the other new child being a girl and not sharing a dorm with him, Riddle wouldn't notice her.

Only two days into Riddle's stay, and he had the two new children eating out of his hand. Literally.

Catherine was forced to watch as Hadrian's twin Lavinia accepted a bit of buttered toast that Riddle held out to her. She bit her lip and prayed that he would lose interest in, if not Hadrian, at least his sister. The little boy was far too suspicious for his age, and might have a chance of resisting Tom's charm, but his sister was so naïve! If Riddle wanted to manipulate her, she'd fall straight into his trap, and adore him all the while.

Gwen, a cynical thirteen-year old sitting to her right, followed her gaze and commented, "You've gotta admit, they really do love him." Yes, they did.

Riddle was the only teenager sitting at the table nearer the kitchen, which was understood to be the smaller children's domain. Most of the usual inhabitants had clustered at one end of the table, as far from the intruder as possible, but the two new ones smiled happily and listened with glee to his cultured voice.

Catherine couldn't hear what he was saying, but Hadrian's eyes were shining and Lavinia had a look of rapture on her face.

Riddle consciously paid no mind to the many adolescent eyes, fearful and doleful, on him. "You want a story of magic? Very well. This is a story of three witc—magical princesses who set out to find the Fountain of Fair Fortune."

"What's that?" Lavinia asked. Tom had barely begun his tale, and her cornflower eyes were already wide.

Riddle explained and went through the story, which Malfoy, shocked at his ignorance of a tale that he considered universal, had related to him in his third year. Halfway through, Lavinia laid her head on his knee. He tried not to stiffen and was largely successful. **Wretched girl.**

When he concluded, Hadrian snorted. It was obvious that he had no use for such sentimental trash. Riddle shared the feeling, but he had to cater to the girl, too.

"Would you like another story?" Hadrian shrugged. "I know of one about a very clever man indeed…" There. That had grabbed his attention. He had realized very early on in his acquaintance with the boy that Hadrian cared a good deal about intellect. His heroes were sly and crafty, rather than strong and physically powerful. **If he were a wizard, he'd be a great Slytherin. The girl, on the other hand**—he glanced at her tiny head laid so trustingly on his knee, honey-blonde curls spilling over his leg—**is pure Hufflepuff.**

By the time Riddle brought the story of the Deathly Hallows to a close, his companions had devoured their share of the meager food spread out on the table. Lavinia had lost interest on the story at around the same time it dawned on her that the account concerned neither mermaids nor princesses, but Hadrian loved it. The only part to which he objected was the ending. "Why did the third brother _choose_ to die?"

Riddle shrugged. "I don't know. People can be odd."

"_I'm _going to live forever."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"I _will_."

"I believe you." **I believe that you believe it.**

Every single one of the other denizens of the orphanage had left, unwilling to spend more time in the same room as Riddle unless it was strictly necessary.

Riddle caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye, and realized that Catherine was watching them from the doorway. Without bothering to turn his face toward her, he told her, "I'd invite you to join us, but I'm afraid we're just about through here."

She stepped into his line of vision. "Then they need to wash up."

"Not just yet. I have something for them." He had made the decision in a split second, seeing Lavinia inhale her paltry breakfast.

Catherine followed them into the boys' room, where Tom retrieved his poor excuse for a traveling suitcase and swung it onto his bed. In one of the outer pockets was a colossal bar of Honeydukes chocolate: his Christmas present from Seraphina. He had given her nothing in return, but she didn't seem to care.

He carefully unwrapped it without giving any of the other three members of the strange quartet get a good look at the foil around it.

"Here. Have some of this." Lavinia and Hadrian took it eagerly and dug in.

But Catherine protested. "Chocolate? This early?"

He looked her square in the eye. He had practiced the look in front of a mirror. "They need _something_ to eat. Don't tell me they're getting enough here. This is what I have."

She looked at him as though she had never seen him before, and her face was almost gentle. **And if it makes you trust me more, so much the better.**

* * *

A/N: Thanks to a guest reviewer who suggested the names Dougal and Duane for the crup. I decided not to use either for this character, but I liked them, so if one or the other shows up in the form of another character in this story or another, don't be too surprised. Kudos to whoever knows why I chose to use the name _Argus_.

I apologize for the growing number of OCs. I realize that an excess of these can be frustrating and confusing for the reader. I hope they work with the story. What do you all think?

Also, who got the movie reference in this chapter? I think it's kind of obvious, but maybe that's because I know it's there. If you know, tell me, and I will give you a cyber hug and my undying love. If the latter bit creeps you out, I can forego the undying love bit and just give you a hug. Or a cyber poodle.

At this point I'm just rambling (It's one in the morning and I'm tired), so I'll shut up now.

Pacem, amorem, et Latinam.

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	12. The Visitor

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah. Non sum Rowling. Esne Rowling? Non cogitabam te esse. Igitur componamus tacere de dominio Harrii Pottris.

A/N: I will not apologize for my tardiness. Not this time. I've been traveling, and have had minimum access to computers.

On the bright side, I got to go to Vienna and try out my German.

* * *

Chapter 12

_In which we visit the distant present and three generations of Malfoys make their appearances._

Tuesday was uneventful but prosperous, and Hermione was glad of it. Fewer customers meant more time to curl up with Sinister Happenings: Infamous Scottish Hauntings, which was long and chock full of interesting information. Hermione didn't expect to finish it that day or the next day.

On Wednesday the 20th, Hermione came back from her lunch break wrapped in her woolen cloak but still freezing. Argus was trotting along with her, as he had been the previous day. Hermione had taken him to Alexandria after realizing just how cold it was in her rooms, and Argus and Aristophanes had reached a wary truce.

Fumbling with the lock, she glanced across the street, in the window of Borgin and Burkes. There she saw something—or rather, someone—that started her heart to thumping. Conversing calmly with the shopkeeper and clutching a lumpy parcel was Abraxas Malfoy. As he counted out coins, she dove into the shop.

She peered out the window, and saw to her horror that the blonde head was now on the street, coming ever closer to her shop. Well, not _hers_, really, but the meaning is clear.

_So much for reopening by one. I'm keeping the _Closed_ sign up until he goes away._ A simple plan, and is it not said that the simpler such a one is the better?

Ah, but even the best-laid plans can go awry. She heard a whining accompanied by a scratching, and realized that Argus was still outside. _Oh, no._

"Hello, small one. You seem to be on the wrong side of the door for your liking. It therefore occurs to me that you are in need of aid." Hermione almost gave her hiding place—she was crouching under the window—away by laughing. _Malfoys talk to puppies. Who knew?_ But the impulse to laugh vanished as she remembered that she had failed to lock the door, so great had been her haste to hide.

Abraxas Malfoy opened the door of the shop and strode in, ignoring the sign that read, in clear, plain English—as well as in several other tongues common among the frequenters of Knockturn Alley—_CLOSED_. _If he can't read, why is he walking into a bookstore? _… _Oh, right. Argus. Blasted dog._

Malfoy looked around for the shopkeeper, but found only Aristophanes. "Ah, another one. This shop is just full of you, isn't it?" The cat meowed his agreement and trotted over to Hermione. She tried to shoo him away, but he was persistent, licking her with his rough raspberry tongue. _I _hate_ cats_.

Malfoy crouched to see why the cat found the area under the window ledge so fascinating, and came face-to-face with Hermione. He must have been startled, but his noble face betrayed no surprise.

"Miss Grey," he acknowledged cordially, "would you care for my assistance?" Smiling mildly, he extended his left hand to help her up, still clutching that parcel.

Reluctance to explain herself warred with a dislike of her cramped space in which she was currently squashed. Discomfort won, and Hermione accepted his help to clamber out of the tight corner. when she was to her feet, he offered her a tiny bow, and she returned a nod of her head. The absurdity of it was too much, and Hermione laughed without real mirth. Brushing herself off, she smiled forcedly at him.

"Fancy meeting you here."

"You didn't mention that you were getting a _job_ over the holidays." He spoke the word _job_ with as much distaste as Ron might have said _Malfoy_. An ironic comparison, to be sure, but accurate.

"Oh—I don't work here. I just came in here for a book. When I saw you, I…" _Think, Hermione, think._ "I mean, I saw someone behind you—someone I used to know—whom I didn't want to see."

"Oh." Malfoy paused. _Thank Merlin, he's buying it!_ "Tell me, Miss Grey—or should I say Miss Fisher?—Do you always don the badge of an employee at the places you, ah, patronize?"

Hermione's eyes flicked to her chest, where she had, at Mr. Hedgewick's direction, pinned a small but shiny symbol of her status. That is, she was wearing a badge that said _Miss Fisher_—she had given him the name Ellen Fisher, after a childhood friend, a Muggle—and glinted in the light, drawing attention to itself. _Damn._

"Erm…" Her face was hot, and she couldn't look Malfoy in the eye. Instead she focused her attention on the back wall, on a small painting depicting a pearly unicorn. Or, judging by its girth, a pampered pet pony. Children's pets generally didn't have horns, but that could just be her eyes playing tricks on her.

"Miss Grey. Hermione." His voice was gentle. "It's alright. You will forgive my forwardness, but you couldn't have hidden it from everybody forever. And I will keep your confidence until you are ready to reveal yourself."

"You will?"

From what she could see out of the corner of her eye, he looked very seriously offended. "You don't esteem Slytherins highly enough, Hermione. Surprising, since you are one of us—but then, you are but lately come. We have morals of our own, and we are loyal friends." Silence for a moment, and then, as if he weren't sure if he wanted to continue speaking: "Besides, we have troubles of our own." Hermione didn't know what to say.

When she at last met Abraxas's eyes, he told her, "If you want people to think you have a loving family, that's your business, though sometimes I think purebloods love blood ties too well. But you could have told your _friends_, at least. You shouldn't be living alone. Especially not in Knockturn Alley."

Once she'd gotten past that last bit of chivalry and worked her mind around what Abraxas had just said, Hermione could do nothing but stare at him, mouth agape. When she finally realized her jaw was on the floor, she picked it up, but not without recalling her mean-spirited kindergarten teacher's reprimand to her when she had done that in response to a classmate's show-and-tell presentation involving a live sea star. "Hermione Granger, stop that! With your mouth open and your eyes bugging out, you look like a fish yourself!" Oh, how she'd hated Miss Carbuncle—oops, Carbocle. _No one who hates small children that much should deal with them for five days a week._

But the narrator apologizes for his digression. In the future, he will attempt to keep Miss Hermione Granger (alias Hermione Grey, Ellen Fisher)'s irrelevant thoughts to himself. Sincerely, your friendly neighborhood vigilan—editor.

_He's completely mad. _And Hermione laughed with relief. _He doesn't know! He has no idea!_ But there was a darker side to that realization.

_Would his "loyal friends" spiel still apply if he knew I was a filthy Mudblood?_ She tried to push the thought away, but it had a firm hold on her. If Malfoy knew everything about her, he'd loathe her, just as Rosier and Eileen despised Marie de Martineaux, as much for her parentage as for her character. More, actually. Now there was a cheerful thought.

"Hermione?" Oh, right. He was still there.

"Thank you for understanding, Abraxas. Thank you very much." She smiled at him. _Let him think I'm a poor, pureblood orphan with no relatives left in the world. He doesn't hate me, because he doesn't _know!

"Miss Grey, it really isn't appropriate for you to be living… here, even for a short time." Malfoy looked down his nose at the street outside. Then a thought seemed to strike him, and he turned sharply back towards her, fixing her in an intense stare, which Hermione recognized as a less hostile version of his son's. "It is just for the holidays, isn't it?" His eyes narrowed. "Miss Grey, what are you going to do after graduation? Do you have somewhere to go?"

Hermione forced herself to lift her chin and answer him confidently, as though the answer were obvious. "Of course. My late parents' estate is mine now, but it is… unavailable at the moment. I expect to be able to move in by July."

Abraxas relaxed a little, but still looked concerned. "I am glad to hear it, but that does not solve the problem of your current residence, or the issue of your financial status. Pardon my indelicacy—I would spare you if the topic could be left alone—but your employment suggests that you have need of liquid assets."

Hermione thought quickly. _I am a rich pureblood scion. I am a rich pureblood scion. Why am I here?_ "I thank you again, Mr. Malfoy, for your friendly solicitude, but my money is tied up in my parents' estate. When I am in full possession of _that_, then I will want for money no longer. I beg you not to worry on my account.

"As for my living here, it is only for the week." Almost two weeks, actually, but he didn't need to know that. "I will spend the remainder of the holidays with a friend." Abraxas was still frowning, so she added, "a pureblood friend." She deliberately didn't mention the name of her friend, and she knew he was too polite to ask. Being who he was, he must already feel that he had overstepped several boundaries in asking her the questions he had.

_Until I know why he and Corentin are so cold, I'm going to leave that hornet's nest alone._

"That, at least, is fortunate. But can you not stay anywhere else?" A pause, and then Hermione saw a worrying gleam of determination in those grey eyes. "My mansion is always open to you, you know, and my family and I would love to have you."

"I regret that as much as I would like to, I cannot take you up on your generous offer. I have...other engagements." As frustrating as the Purebloods could be, it was nice to deal with people who rarely expected you to give an honest answer.

"If you are determined, Miss Grey, I must yield. Keep your Crup close."

Hermione smiled. Riddle was pure evil, and she never knew what to say to Ellen, but she was beginning to be fond of Abraxas.

Abraxas wasn't expected home at any particular time, so he stayed for the rest of the day. Several times he made as if to leave, but despite Hermione's initial reluctance to deal with him, pressed him to stay. There was something calm in Knockturn Alley at night, when the thieves and murderers who used the place as a daytime hideaway and mingled with practitioners of the Dark Arts were replaced by whores and drunks—the scene produced a sort of peace when one let the bustle fell away—but during the day, the street was just terrifying. Not how she had imagined it, but there it was. Hermione was glad of the company.

Malfoy made himself useful, too. A wizened old man entered, surrendered his wand, and asked to see the rare books. Hermione mistrusted his sly glances, and refused him. He seemed about to make a scene, so Abraxas showed him the door.

At 8:00 exactly, Hermione closed the shop. Abraxas insisted on taking her to dinner, so they ate at a tiny place down a side street. Quiet and peaceful, _candlelit_, but not romantic, for which Hermione was grateful. Abraxas was engaged and, though he didn't know it, so was she. Any risk of being mistaken for a pureblood couple enjoying a private moment ought to be avoided at all costs.

Malfoy wanted to see her to her hotel, but she didn't want him to see the hellhole in which she was currently staying, and she flatly refused, firmly bidding him farewell.

* * *

Like the Order members whom we visited earlier in this history, the Dark Lord's inner circle was currently residing in the mountains, but unlike the Phoenixes', the Death Eaters' abode was dark and dank. The loud pop of an Apparation near the opening's mouth echoed in the twisting tunnel leading down into the heart of the mountain, where Bellatrix Lestrange and her force were encamped.

"Lumos." Lucius Malfoy shook the light from his wand, and it floated gently upwards, stopping just above his head, a foot down the tunnel. "Come, Draco." His son and heir followed him into the gloom, pale eyes darting about uneasily. "_Quickly_."

They walked in an oppressive silence for a few minutes, stopping only when they came to one of the many nets of blue light. At each one, Lucius muttered a different password, and each one dissolved, reforming after they had gone through.

After the third such ward, Lucius spoke. "You have failed the Dark Lord once, Draco. That cannot happen again. Therefore, you will do everything your aunt says, when she says to do it. She has our lord's ear, and as she told him of your failure before, she will tell him if you serve him well."

"Yes, Father."

Two more wards, and then a pair of guards. Lucius gave yet another password—this one was "Blood calls to blood"—and the Malfoys stepped into a cavern in which giants would have felt perfectly at home. Lucius extinguished his light—it was no longer needed—and preceded his son to the other end of the chamber.

Though there had been a few scattered clumps of wizards nearer the entrance, this was clearly the area where all of the real Death Eater activity took place. Bellatrix Lestrange sat on a throne of bones, toying with her wand. To her left was a larger, stone throne. It was nominally the Dark Lord's, and no one else would ever have dared to sit in it, but Lucius Malfoy would have bet every galleon he had that Voldemort had never held court from that throne. It was simply there to remind everyone present on whose behalf Lestrange was acting.

To Bellatrix's left stood her husband, Rudolphus, who nodded at Malfoy as he entered.

"Bellatrix."

"Lucius. And little Draco, too. What's the matter, Drakie?" Her nephew flinched almost imperceptibly at her mocking tone. "Aren't you happy to see Auntie Bella?"

"This is business, sister, not a social call."

"Aww."

"Really, Bellatrix. Grown women should not pout." Lucius Malfoy had never had much patience with his sister-in-law.

"So!" Lestrange leaned forward and nearly shouted, and the younger Malfoy cringed. His father rapped him with his cane, and he straightened immediately. "What is it that brings you to us, _Lucius_?"

"The Dark Lord has instructed us to assist you in your search for Potter."

Bellatrix's manic smile slipped a notch. "Is he…displeased?"

Lucius debated how to respond. He wanted to say that Lord Voldemort would like nothing more than for someone to bring him the Lestranges' heads on pikes, but he decided that Bellatrix's panic would not be diverting enough to make the lie worth the Dark Lord's anger when he discovered the falsehood.

He also couldn't say, _Not with you_. That would imply that Voldemort was angry with someone, viz. Malfoy himself. Nothing would save him from Bellatrix's contempt if she realized that Lucius was out of favor with her master.

"He indicated no great anger with you." That sounded appropriately knowledgeable, and concealed from his colleagues his current state of disgrace. Perfect.

Bellatrix relaxed, and Rudolphus came forward. "We're certain that Potter and his closest associates are somewhere in the area, and we always have people combing the range. When they come back, you and your son can go out with the next party. I'll show you which areas we've already searched."

Rudolphus led the two blondes over to a wall, on which had been hung a large map of the mountain range. On it were large areas of red, which Rudolphus explained were areas that were deemed virtually impossible for human habitation. Green denoted areas that the Order might use as their next hideout, and blue patches were neither too dangerous nor extremely likely to provide shelter to Potter and his rabble. Slightly less than half of the area was blank, which meant that it hadn't yet been searched.

"We don't have the power to set up a web over the entire valley, but we've put weak spells on the areas we've already covered, that will tell us if a group of beings enters that section. We can't tell animal from human, but it's something."

Draco retreated to a concave section of wall to get a bit of rest while his father and uncle continued to pore over the map.

* * *

A/N: I thought it was time for another scene in the present day, and I love Helena Bonham-Carter, so I had to get Bellatrix in here somewhere. I hope she's not out of character. I find it hard to write her, since she's a crazy lady.

I also couldn't resist infusing this chapter with a few bits of randomness; it's just how I am. *Hangs head* It makes me feel better to pretend that it's my attempt to insert a personal touch into the story, but really it's just boredom. I can't control it.

I was uneasy about making Hermione spend time with both the Malfoys and the Chevaliers, because it seemed almost overkill, but my reasoning was that Abraxas is a gentleman. There's no way he'd let Hermione stay in Knockturn Alley for any longer than he could prevent.

I have fixed the timing throughout the story. I realized a while ago that I had set the story a year too early for Tom's seventh year at Hogwarts, but was too lazy to fix it at the time. I hope that it is truer to canon now.

Anyway, since no one got the reference from last chapter, and I refuse to just tell you, here's another quote to help: "Miners, not _minors_, you idiot." There. That should do it.

Well, I hope you like the story so far. As always, I would really appreciate reviews.


	13. The Questions

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah. Non sum Rowling. Esne Rowling? Non cogitabam te esse. Igitur componamus tacere de dominio Harrii Pottris.

* * *

Chapter 13

_In which Tom schemes._

It was hard for Tom to get so much as a moment to talk with Lavinia. Whenever he approached her to attempt the formation of actual partiality on her part, as opposed to the short-lived small-child amiability which she had shown him over the past few days, Catherine swooped down and gathered her up, spouting some pretext about a bath or a nap. **The girl must get three naps a day**.

Hadrian was a different matter. Cathy was obviously attempting to plant in him the seed of dislike of Riddle, but Tom actually seemed to be the only one whose company the boy enjoyed. No matter how the boy's self-appointed protector implemented the carrot and the stick, the two were fast becoming inseparable. "Hadrian, come over here, and I'll read you a story." When that failed, "Hadrian, stop bothering Tom, or I'll have you sit in the corner."

To which Tom smiled indulgently and patted the ground for Hadrian to sit back down. "Indeed, Catherine, he is not bothering me."

Somehow, though, her futile struggles didn't provide him with as much amusement as they had the last time he had seen her, the past summer. Oh, she was still afraid and defiant, but now her impotence bored him. What he needed was someone with a bit more strength of will, to fight him and not crumple under the preliminary blows. What he needed was Hermione Grey.

Grey was afraid of him—he had thought at first that she wasn't, but he had come to realize that she was simply good at hiding it, as she was at concealing most trains of thought not concerned with the redheaded boy—and defiant as well, but whereas poor, foolish Catherine could never hope to succeed in thwarting his interests, Grey was certainly a potential threat. She was intelligent, beautiful, powerful magically, and presumably rich, all of which made him wary, but most importantly, she was ambitious.

Tom could see ambition in those deep, dark eyes, and read it in the neat hand that penned each and every Potions essay. He could hear it in the tap of her sensible shoes on the stone castle floor, and it was there, hiding behind her eagerness, in the ring of her voice when she spoke in class. And he could feel it on those rare occasions when she broadcast the image of the black-haired boy.

It was not personal ambition, the sort that one finds in a politician. Grey didn't want to rule the world. She wanted a _cause_ to triumph. Not a specific one, just general Good. And therein lay the problem.

Had Grey wanted power for herself, Riddle could easily have exploited her greed. He had done it many times before. Granted, not to anyone as smart as Grey, but even fooling her should be doable. But as things stood now, he would have to convince her that _his_ was the cause she should champion.

He couldn't just let her go about her own business. She was too dangerous. He had to either crush her or win her over. Destroying her—physically or mentally—was not to be considered. It would be an unconscionable waste of talent.

Fortunately, she was a pureblood, so the idea of "benevolent" tyranny was something to which she had been brought up. Save for the Weasleys, Tom had yet to encounter a pureblood who didn't think he ran the world. To be fair, the pureblood in question was usually right.

The only other obstacle was her uncommon knowledge of the Muggle world. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to convince her that the Muggles were intrinsically inferior, especially since he didn't believe it himself.

Riddle sitting on his bed, pondering the problem when Hadrian entered the room. "Hello, Tom."

"Hello, Hadrian."

"What're you doing?"

"Thinking."

"About what?"

"A girl."

Hadrian's left shoulder went up in a show of indifference. It wasn't the distaste of a small boy for a member of the opposite sex, but rather a general disinterest in the affairs of other human beings. Hadrian looked out for himself, tolerated Catherine with mild annoyance, loved Lavinia, and, it seemed, worshipped Tom himself, but he cared nothing for anyone else. There was no reason for him to show interest in some girl Tom happened to know.

"Tell me, Hadrian, what would _you_ do if someone didn't like you? In fact, hated you."

Hadrian looked puzzled. "Why would I care?"

Tom smiled a little. "I suppose you wouldn't. But I do. I care very much."

"Why?"

Catherine, who for once had not been noticed, and who was listening behind the door, wondered the same thing. Surely Tom couldn't mean Catherine herself, for he would have identified her by name.

"She could be very useful."

An idea hit Catherine, and a wave of panic swept over her. Did he mean Lavinia? No, no, she calmed herself. Though that theory would explain why Tom wasn't telling Hadrian the mystery girl's name, Lavinia liked Tom. Besides, how useful could a five-year-old be?

"How?"

Tom was impressed. He had been working to cultivate Hadrian's curiosity. If he was lucky, when he left the orphanage for the last time, which would be in just under a fortnight, the hapless Catherine would be left with an intelligent, hostile child who had learned to ask the right questions. A really good bad influence never goes away, no matter how short the time the child was exposed or the length of time apart.

"I find her to be exceptionally intelligent. If she wanted to—and she does at present—she could cause me a good deal of trouble. I would like to prevent that."

Hadrian thought this over, discarding the word _exceptionally_ as incomprehensible. "Give her things," he said finally.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "What if she doesn't want anything?"

Hadrian was silent for a moment, shaking his head. "Everyone wants something."

* * *

Wednesday the 27th came too early for Hermione. Her employer came back promptly at eleven, landing on the doorstep in a flurry of ragged robes and bulky bags.

"Good morning, Mr. Hedgewick."

"So, girl, you didn't run off with the contents of my vault?"

Hermione smiled faintly. "No, sir."

"Well, come on in, girl, and show me the books."

The two pored over the accounts for the next twenty minutes, Hermione pausing the magical audio—Mr. Hedgewick could not, of course, read the books himself—to clarify on occasion. Finally satisfied, the proprietor of Alexandria stuck a gnarled hand into his purse and extracted a handful of money, which he counted out carefully.

"Let's see, four galleons fifteen, times nine days… let's make that forty-seven Galleons, for your charming personality and because I feel guilty for paying a pureblood"—the sarcasm was not lost on Hermione—"such a low rate."

"Thank you."

"It would have been fifty, but I hadn't thought even a schoolgirl would be so careless as to let her crup follow her to work."

Hermione coughed embarassedly. "He was nice to have around."

The old man wheezed out a laugh. "Why? Because it's Knockturn Alley? Tell me, girl, how a blind Methuselah like me has managed to survive here."

Hermione's cheeks grew hot. She wondered exactly how many layers of protection the shop had on it, wards to which she hadn't been given access. That was probably why he hadn't been worried about leaving his shop full of very valuable artifacts to her for a week. "I see."

"Hm. Get out of my shop."

Hermione turned to go, but Mr. Hedgewick added, quite softly, "If you should need a job at another time, come see me..."

"Thank you, sir."

It woulod be nice to have something to fall back on. She very much hoped she wouldn't need it.

* * *

A/N: I know it's been forever since I last updated this. This morning, a reviewer made me feel guilty, and I instantly went to work, so here you go. Enjoy, review, etc.


	14. Turning Points

Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah. Non sum Rowling. Esne Rowling? Non cogitabam te esse. Igitur componamus tacere de dominio Harrii Pottris.

A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it? C'est la vie. Still, it is with a decidedly sheepish smile that I announce my return.

* * *

Chapter 14

_In which Riddle experiences an odd sensation and supporting characters experiment with second chances. Oh, and Hermione's in it. Her and her little dog, too. Basically, our heroes find themselves in sticky situations._

"Gwen, have you seen Lavinia?"

The thirteen-year old shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. She's probably with her brother."

Catherine sighed her frustration. "Probably, but where is _he_?"

"Do you want me to help you look?"

Gwen was already rising from her chair, but a slim hand pushed her back. "Keep reading, Gwen. I'll help Catherine find her strays."

Cathy forced a smile. "I'm sure you're busy, Tom. I can find them by myself."

"I'm not busy at all, and I'd be glad to help."

Shooting helpless glances at Gwen, Catherine followed Tom from the room. He fought down a smile, for he could hear her loudly cursing her luck in her mind.

The children weren't upstairs, or in the cellar, or upstairs again, and Cathy had already searched the main floor twice. Tom didn't bother to feign worry, and he could tell she was only a split second away from accusing him of having killed the children and stashed them in the walls. Trembling, she came to a halt in the middle of the hall, and jumped when her companion touched a gentle hand to her elbow.

"There's one more place they might be. It's a long shot, so I didn't want to mention it, but we should look, anyway."

Tom led Cathy down the stairwell, but then, instead of going out into the main hall, he went behind the stairs, and gestured to a door. Wondering how she could have forgotten such a common hiding spot, Cathy flung the door open, but the room was empty. Her shoulders slumped.

Tom shook his head. "I didn't mean here." He went to the left and indicated a door. The dirt on it and on the walls made it almost invisible.

Cathy stared at him. "I've been in here hundreds of times and I've never noticed that!"

"Well, when you're playing hide-and-seek, you tend to be too busy squeezing yourself into a wardrobe or under a table to examine the walls."

"But how did you—"

"I observed that the playroom was a great deal smaller than it logically should be, unless the walls were several feet thick, which I doubted. I came in here and located this door."

Catherine nodded her understanding and opened the door.

At first glance, everything seemed fine, and nothing was too out of the ordinary. Hadrian and Lavinia _were_ there, playing under flickering lightbulbs, and they did seem to have lost track of the time. Cathy was about to enter the room and gather the children up, but Tom stretched his arm across the doorway. She turned her head back to look at him, probably poised to deliver an indignant rant about how the children needed proper guidance and discipline, but when she looked deep into his face and her presumably angry words died on her lips.

Lavinia's dolls were dancing, but neither the girl nor his brother was touching them. Hadrian didn't seem to be paying them much attention at all, and after a second, Tom saw that he was more concerned with his marbles, which seemed to be orbiting his head. This second shock was apparently too much for the older girl. Cathy crumpled.

At the sound of the older girl hitting the floor, Lavinia's and Hadrian's heads snapped up. The dolls toppled over and the marbles clattered onto the floor. Lavinia began to sob.

"Too-oo-oom."

He stepped over Cathy's fallen form, walked over to the little girl, and knelt before her. "Yes, darling?"

"We h-hurt C-C-Cathy."

**Of course. God forbid that Cathy should be hurt. Does the girl have any idea what she can do?** Tom picked Lavinia up and looked past her, to where Hadrian was surveying the whole thing, probably having similar thoughts.

"No, darling, no, you mustn't think that. It's not your fault. Catherine was just tired and surprised, and her fall had nothing to do with you."

He couldn't tell if Lavinia believed him, but her sobs had subsided somewhat. Now to focus on the main problem. Cathy darling had just seen real magic performed, and there was no chance that she would believe him if he told her it had all been a dream. He couldn't risk messing with her mind, because he didn't know it very well. Memory charms were not his strong point, and the less familiar he was with someone, the harder it was for him to mold their psyche. There was also the tricky trace, of course.

There was only one thing he could do, and it was the last thing in the world he wanted.

"Lavinia, dear, be quiet for a moment." He tried not to let his frustration with her sobs show. It took a minute, but the child fell silent. Tom closed his eyes and concentrated with all his might. **Albus Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore…**

* * *

Hermione stood outside Gringotts, petting Argus, who was seated on top of her chest. At precisely the time appointed, Hermione saw Corentin making his way through the crowd. He smiled cordially at her, bowing low. "Miss Grey."

"Mr. Harad." She smiled back, and they both relaxed.

"It's good to see you, Hermione. I know my aunt said that a carriage would meet you here, but as we are going overseas, a flying conveyance is necessary, so we'll be meeting one.

"I remember your dislike of flying, and I have made every effort to ensure that the journey is as pleasant as possible." Hermione, whose continued Friday-night flying lessons with Corentin were the only times she willingly left the ground, was grateful.

The flying carriage was surprisingly smooth, and the company was so good that Hermione was barely conscious that she was in the air.

After a time, Corentin glanced out of the window and announced that they were almost at their destination. A few minutes later, he invited her to pull back her curtain. Somewhat apprehensively, Hermione did so.

The view took her breath away, and for once it was not because of her acrophobia.

A lake stretched out beneath her, reflecting the winter sky. Surrounding it on three sides were giant rocks piled in mounds as high as hills. The other quarter of the water was rimmed with flat stone. Hermione followed its arc inward to a large house, the most prominent feature of which was the windows.

It was entirely different from the picture Hermione had formed when she imagined a home in France, but it was nonetheless beautiful. She told Corentin so.

"Isn't it? Marguerite cries whenever she goes away to school and, despite what she says of missing her parents, I think she pines more for the house than for its inhabitants." The twinkling of Corentin's dark eyes told Hermione that she was supposed to laugh.

The carriage landed as smoothly as it had flown, and Corentin, begging Hermione's pardon, went off to see about the horses, who were lathered with sweat. He invited her to show herself inside and make herself at home.

Hermione approached the house, looking up at the vast expanses of glass and weathered stone. Up close, it was easy to see why a Pureblood would feel secure having visitors here. This was as much a fortress as a home.

Hermione controlled her awe quite well as she mounted the steps to the front door, but it almost defeated her when she stretched her hand to touch the knocker (despite what Corentin had said, Hermione wasn't willing to let herself in). She reminded herself that she was as blueblooded as any Chevalier (_Hah!_), at least as far as they knew. Still, she was nervous, and it didn't help that Argus was whining and sniffing the wind uneasily.

Hermione wrapped her hand around the curved horns of the gargoyle that served as the door knocker. And then everything happened at once.

A long tongue of metal whipped out from the figure's mouth and wrapped around her fingers; the stones beneath her feet shifted and sunk into the ground, trapping her feet in the hole formed; the chilly wind all around her became a cyclone; something in the house began to emit a high pitched wail.

With the horrified jolt that comes from a realization a split second too late, Hermione understood that she had stumbled into the Pureblood-bigot equivalent of a Sneakoscope: a Mudblood detector. They were fairly common, even in Hermione's time, but she had forgotten them, and the Malfoys hadn't had one. _Merlin, how __am I going to explain this?_

Corentin came running from around the corner, wand drawn. He shouted something that Hermione couldn't hear, and the grating noise ceased. The brass released her hand from its painful grip, and the stone pushed back up to its normal level. The wind still swirled some; that and the movement of the rock knocked Hermione off of her feet and against Corentin. He caught her with the reflexes of the Chaser he was, but made no move to steady her.

Hermione looked slowly into a carefully blank face. Corentin's black eyes bored into hers without giving anything away, and his mouth was perfectly straight. The hands clutching her elbows were not intentionally rough, but could hardly be called gentle. She swallowed, and opened her mouth, but could not speak.

Corentin finally maneuvered her so that she could stand by herself. He looked at her, at Argus, at the gargoyle, which still looked as though it wanted nothing more than to attack the undesirable. He said at last, "It is an old spell. It once targeted a very old friend of my aunt's, who had never set the wards off before. That was clearly a mistake, and so is this.

"There is no telling when the house might...malfunction again. I will shut the alarms off for the remainder of your stay, and I will explain to my aunt."

Hermione nodded weakly, wondering why he didn't just throw her out.

"Excuse me again, Miss Grey. Before you can enter, I must take care of a few things." Corentin bowed low, spun on his heel, and disappeared inside the house, which looked less and less friendly by the second.

* * *

Dumbledore patted his teaching assistant's hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, Ms. McGonagall. It gets easier."

Minerva McGonagall gestured helplessly. "They don't _listen_. I say something and they just disregard it. Sometimes I wonder if an aging potion isn't the way to go."

Dumbledore smiled gently. "No, my dear. You-" _Albus Dumbledore... Albus Dumbledore..._ He knew that honeyed voice, just one of the many ways Tom Riddle charmed everyone around him. There was no kindness or oozing of charm now, just urgency. What did it take to provoke that sort of feeling in a boy such as Riddle, and to make him reveal his ability to project his thoughts? Of course, the boy knew that Dumbledore knew he could project them, and DUmbledore knew that Tom knew, but generally it was an elephant in the room, metaphorically speaking.

Dumbledore removed his hand from McGonagall's. "My apologies, Minerva. I must go immediately."

There could be no Apparation in or out of Hogwarts. Everybody knew that. If Hermione had been present, she would have rejected the evidence of her eyes as nonsense. It was utterly impossible for Dumbledore to simply disappear, especially since he wouldn't be Headmaster for several years yet. And yet that is exactly what happened.

He hadn't received the sense of any location in Tom's call, but the most likely place for the boy was the orphanage. Dumbledore's more specific destination was a little nook behind the stairs, where he was unlikely to attract any attention.

Arriving with a pop, Dumbledore brushed a cobweb from his robes and looked about him. To his surprise, Tom Riddle himself stood in an aperture in the wall. He looked unruffled, but he had a tight grip on a small girl. As for the child-one of the children, rather, for there was a small boy standing just beside Tom, supremely unconcerned-her round blue eyes regarded the stranger with curiosity but no suspicion. However, she had clearly been crying recently.

Dumbledore did not like Tom Riddle, and a recommendation from Godric Gryffindor himself could not have made him trust the boy, but he had full confidence in the teenager's ability to assess situations. Riddle had called him here with little regard for subtlety, which meant that it was important enough not to waste time insisting that the children leave. "What is it?"

Tom stepped from the door into the space beside Dumbledore, the motion revealing a prone shape that had been hidden behind his legs.

If Dumbledore had a fault at this relatively early stage in his life, it was that he rarely believed anything but the worst of people he had previously found reason to dislike. He counted Riddle among that number, and so his first reaction upon beholding the unconscious female was to fix his piercing gaze on Tom. "What happened?" It was no open accusation, but his real meaning was clear. _What did you do?_ It hung in the stale air.

Riddle said coldly, with no pretense of respect or liking, "She saw something, for which she could never have been adequately prepared."

And Dumbledore understood why he had been so peremptorily summoned.

He understood that the unconscious girl had seen magic performed, and that that sight had shocked her into fainting. Very well, she could simply be Obliviated.

He understood that Riddle was much too clever to risk being exposed as a wizard. That was fine, too; he had never expected to catch Riddle red-handed during his schooling.

He understood who the perpetrators must have been. A quick talk with them would probably prevent similar incidents happening before they went off to Hogwarts.

None of this gave him trouble.

He also understood, though, that the girl was not simply clinging to Tom because he was her only option, and that the boy-her brother?-who was currently glaring defiantly at Dumbledore, would not stand pressed against just anyone's legs. _Oh, dear._

Still waiting for Dumbledore to take charge, Riddle shifted his grip on Lavinia, and Dumbledore understood that he had a problem. To convince the children that they wanted no part of Riddle, while he coaxed them to him for his own amusement, would have been hard enough. Now he suspected that he would have to contend with a Tom Riddle who had discovered that he might actually have a use for them. The professor frowned a little, wishing he had more time to think.

"Tom, you and they will remain here. Right here, do you understand?"

Riddle nodded.

Dumbledore walked into the room where the mischief had initiated and closed the door behind him.

When he returned, his face was grim. Lavinia was whimpering with confused fear. Tom stroked her hair with all the lightness of a feather, swaying gently back and forth. She was heavy, but he didn't notice the weight. His eyes were riveted on Dumbledore.

The older wizard shook his head in a desperate attempt to stop this before it went any further, but he knew it was a futile effort.

"What's your name, child?" he asked the girl.

She stared up at him with round eyes, not mistrusting, just tired. Hating the necessity, Dumbledore looked to Riddle, who said quietly, "This is Lavinia. This is her brother, Hadrian."

Dumbledore tipped his head politely to the children. "I'm pleased to meet you."

At first, only silence greeted this pronouncement of pleasure, but then Tom gently shook the girl in his arms. "What do you say, Lavinia?"

"Pleased to meet you," the little girl said with all due solemnity. "What happened to Cathy?"

Dumbledore glanced at his student, who didn't venture an explanation. Stroking his red beard, Dumbledore explained slowly, "Cathy will be fine. She was upset, but when she wakes, she will not remember it."

The girl-child looked confused, but the boy was sharper. "She won't remember any of it?"

"No," Tom said, "she won't remember any of it. That means you can't talk to her about it, all right?" The girl, bemused but clearly willing to trust her protector, nodded. The boy, however, was less certain. "Why?" he asked quickly. "Why can't she know?"

Tom looked down at him severely, and Dumbledore saw in the gesture a parody of stern paternity. "You know why. Why didn't you tell anyone in the first place?"

"I was afraid they'd..." The boy broke off to affect a sullen silence, but no more was necessary. Hadrian's meaning was clear.

Dumbledore's brow furrowed as he thought. "Tom, take the children to bed. I will take care of the unfortunate Cathy. Meet me here when you've finished."

Dumbledore didn't know what lies Riddle told to explain the children's reappearance and Cathy's disappearance, but the boy was quick. Cathy was barely asleep against a wall, thinking that Riddle had left her here to rest-Merlin knew that would be suspicious enough, if the professor had read their relationship right-when the teenager returned.

Dumbledore crossed his robed arms over his chest. "Tom... get your things."

Tom's back went up immediately, but to his credit, he restrained himself. "I beg your pardon, sir. I don't understand."

"I now realize that it was unwise to have you stay here. You can spend the rest of your holidays at Hogwarts."

Tom had clearly been expecting this. "Thank you for your offer, Professor, but I am quite happy here. I will stay for the rest of the holidays."

"Mr. Riddle, it benefits neither you nor anyone else. Please don't argue." Dumbledore was suddenly weary. Would he never have done with duty?

"What about the twins?"

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "The children who startled your acquaintance? They'll come to Hogwarts in a few years."

Tom bristled and took a step towards his professor. "That's not what I mean. They can't stay here."

"No," Dumbledore corrected with all the mildness he could summon. "You can't stay here. They must."

"They can come to Hogwarts."

_And remain under your influence. _"That's not possible. Dippet would never allow it, for one thing."

Riddle's dark eyes flashed dangerously. "If you wanted to, you could convince the Headmaster."

Dumbledore shook his head. "It wouldn't work."

He could practically see ice forming on the boy's eyelashes, and he knew what it meant. Some people exploded when they were angry, but Riddle froze.

Nevertheless, he continued. "You were happy enough to let them remain here before you had to call me."

Riddle shook his head. "Not happy. Resigned. Now that you're here, something can be done about it. They're too young to control their magic, even if you were to explain it to them."

Dumbledore stared at him. He hated it, but Riddle had a point. And there was something about that boy... He had all the hallmarks of another Tom. If he left the child here, the result was uncertain, but if the children were brought to Hogwarts, they could be sheltered, taught to love and trust. Taught to do everything Tom had been left to live without.

But Dippet would never allow it.

Dumbledore sighed.

* * *

Corentin muttered the final spell and stepped away. He needed to go back to tell her that she could enter, but he couldn't make his legs move. He was angry and confused and inexplicably sad all at once.

It hadn't been the wards that had made him so reluctant to return to his friend. They really did make mistakes quite often, especially when the person stepping into the ward was a stranger.

It had been the look in her eyes as he had come running. There was despair in it, and defiance, but no real surprise or indignation. No ward had malfunctioned this time.

The question was, what to do now? If he told his aunt, she would eject Miss Grey after the three days any host owed to any invited guest. He _should_ tell her. After all, it was her right as mistress of the mansion to know that sort of thing.

But Corentin's vivid imagination wouldn't let him do his duty as a nephew and a pureblood. He could call to mind exactly how his friend would look after such a betrayal. Eyelashes fluttering with the effort of restraining tears, face a grim mask, mouth quirking as she shot him a parting remark filled with ironic fondness.

_What to do?_

Corentin sighed.

* * *

Dumbledore walked out of the orphanage, tucking a thirty-page document under his robe. This was going to cost him a few points with the headmaster, but Dippet was increasingly ineffective at his job, and ever since rumors of Dumbledore's one-time connection to Grindelwald had begun surfacing, the headmaster had been more than a little frightened of his Transfiguration teacher.

Tom had tried to melt into the shadows just off of orphanage property. It would have worked, except that Lavinia was standing in full daylight, and was clearly holding someone's hand. Dumbledore didn't comment about the failure of what could have been a very impressive move, but simply stopped and waited for Tom to join him in the street. Riddle obliged, and they set off.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter, whenever it comes: The twins adjust to Hogwarts, and Hermione deals with Corentin.


	15. Early Returns

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, I don't own it. This story is written for fun, not profit.

A/N: Whole-hearted thanks go out to the reviewers who provided constructive criticism, helping me to fix everything from typos to bizarre continuity errors.

Also, much love to all reviewers, and even to the infamous readers who don't review. Actually, you last group, you're not infamous, because nobody knows who you are. Just saying. Much affection anyway.

* * *

Chapter 15

_In which Tom is a tour guide and Hermione flees the scene of the crime.  
_

Corentin came back around the corner. He was walking slowly and carefully, like an old man. He looked up at her only briefly, and his eyes were tired. Hermione swallowed, but lifted her chin and waited for her cue.

Corentin stopped a metre distant from her and stood with his head bowed. Hermione couldn't bear the silence, and said crisply, "I suppose you'll need to tell your aunt, then."

Corentin still wouldn't meet her eyes. "It's how we do things," he said. Hermione threw a hand to her face convulsively when she heard the distinct emphasis on _we_. "But then, you know that, don't you?" His laugh was eerie and staccato. "You know everything about us." He jerked his head upwards and grinned at her. She had been wishing he would just equal her gaze, but now she would give the world for him to still be staring at the ground. His eyes pinned her where she stood.

"Everything about us," he repeated. "It's really impressive. So tell me, Miss Grey, what right entitles my aunt to know what you are?" He paused. "No answer? The Greeks called it _xenos_. The host-guest bond," he said in a strange, sing-song way. "You have the right to know who's staying in your home, or in your House."

Hermione flinched. _Well, that was subtle as a gun to the head._ "I see," she managed after a minute dedicated to self-composure.

"I think," Corentin-no, Harad seemed more appropriate-said slowly, "that you should leave. This is not the best place for you at the moment. The wards have been lowered. For the next five minutes, it will be possible to Apparate in and out of this estate."

Hermione nodded. She could not have felt worse pain if someone had thrust a blade between her ribs. She couldn't trust herself to speak, so she merely gathered Argus in her arms, laid a hand on her luggage, and disappeared with a loud crack.

* * *

Tom Riddle mentally tipped his hat to himself. Dumbledore had been prepared to face the headmaster by himself, but he hadn't expected the Head Boy to tag along. By the time he had realized that Tom intended to enter with him, it had been too late to send the boy away.

Dippet had bleated his approval for Tom to act as a mentor to the small children, and for once he had blithely ignored Dumbledore's opposing viewpoint. Now Tom was sitting on a couch on the Heads' Common Room, explaining to Lavinia how he kept Leila well-nourished during the school year. The children had never met the snake before, nor had he mentioned her. During breaks, she stayed at school, hunting at a safe distance from the students' cats.

At least, so she always had. Now that Tom was graduating, he planned to take her with him. She had long since ceded her allegiance to the castle in favor of loyalty to him.

Surprisingly, Hadrian was uninterested in the reptile. "She's just a snake," he said in explanation. "We have snakes at home." He did like the stained glass, though. The orphanage children never left, even to go to church, so it was new to him. Once Tom explained that it wasn't magical, he shrugged and moved on to other topics, but every so often he stuck out a hand to catch the rose and orange rays as they passed through the corridors. The portraits cooed at the adorable children, but when Tom heard the first muttered "Mudbloods!" he steered the children into the nearest place without ancient lords and ladies. It also happened to be the only place Tom really liked in the school.

Tom showed them into the library with a finger to his lips and begged the librarian permission for them to come in whenever they were bored. She was reluctant, but Lavinia solemnly vowed never to break the sanctified silence of the place, and Hadrian shrugged assent for his part. And so the afternoon passed with Tom pointing at pictures and whispering the habitats and habits of a hundred magical creatures.

When it began to get dark, about four, the twins were visibly losing interest in even the most fantastic of beasts, but there were hours to go before dinner. Tom wasn't sure where he could drag them, but he finally decided on the lake. First a stop by the infirmary, where Tom introduced the children to Madame Greenley and she donated blankets as shawls. Hadrian smiled brightly and thanked her more graciously than Tom had ever heard him do. There might have been a hint of an adorable lisp.

**Good. **Riddle smiled a little to himself, turning it into a charming beam when he saw that the nurse was looking at him. **He's a quick learner.** The boy was obviously picking up on Riddle's change in demeanor.

Mindful of Greenley's eyes, Riddle radiated fraternal indulgence and stuck his hands out. Lavinia took one with sincere joy, and Hadrian knew enough to feign the same. The trio fairly skipped out of the hospital wing.

Some of Lavinia's enthusiasm wore off when the cold air hit her bare cheeks, but she wanted to see the lake more than she wanted warmth, so she pressed on. They were halfway down to the water when Riddle realized that either they had to go back, or he was going to have to help. "Lavinia," he said softly, "Hadrian, would you like to see a spell?"

Lavinia chirped her anticipation, and Hadrian's eyes glinted in the fading light as he turned to watch. Tom pulled out his wand, resisting the unaccountable urge to add a bit of flare to the simple spell, and proclaimed "_Este flammata!_" Lavinia jumped a bit, and he could see that the warmth was flowing through her bones. Riddle turned to her brother. "Would you like me to perform this for you?"

The boy's chin tilted slightly up as he replied, "I'm warm enough." **You're usually such a good liar, too. **Oh, well. It was mostly the shivering that gave it away, anyway, and the child couldn't help that. Not at this stage of his development, anyway. Riddle himself was freezing, but he had steeled himself against it.

The lake glistened grey, glints of a lackluster winter sunset having little effect on the monotone surface. It was perfectly still, smooth as glass. The trees shifted uneasily in the wind, and the light was playing tricks on Riddle's eyes. Lavinia's grip on his fingers was tight and growing tighter. Hadrian's eyes were gleaming in a way that very much reminded Tom of himself. On someone else, it was beyond unsettling. He began to regret bringing the twins here, but it _was_ the exact opposite of the dusty library.

Lavinia suddenly released his hand and ran a few feet ahead, staring into the gloom. Riddle saw how intent she was, and didn't try to call her back. "Hello, doggy!" she chirped.

Doggy walked stiff-legged up the hill from the lake. He had seen Lavinia, too, but his reaction was less amiable. His teeth were bared, and a low growl was coming up from his throat. This was not, as it had initially seemed, a cute little terrier. He'd bet his meager fortune that tail had been forked before it had been severed.

Lavinia's confused expression told Tom she had already forgotten his lecture half an hour earlier on Crups, but Hadrian hadn't. He looked torn between protecting himself and saving his wide-eyed sister. Riddle knew he ought to give direction, but he was preoccupied.

**There's something about this... **Something was bothering him, something didn't fit with what he knew about wizarding dogs. He just wished he knew what it was.

When it hit Riddle, he exhaled heavily in relief. The dog wasn't attacking, but moving side to side, sweeping out a semicircle. **He's not just angry, he's protecting something.** "Lavinia," he called softly, watching the dog to make sure it wasn't about to interpret the sound as a further threat, "Come here, love." Lavinia turned and looked at him, but didn't move. "Lavinia!" he said more sharply, and this time she managed to take shaky steps towards him. He waited until she was near enough to touch, then pulled her in, put her hand in Hadrian's, and ordered them to stand back a few steps.

Riddle wished he didn't have the children with him. The dog might have hurt one of them, and Dumbledore's immediate assumption would have been that Tom himself had orchestrated it. More trouble than he needed at the moment. Besides, if what the dog was guarding was something valuable, he might not want those two-gregarious Lavinia and sly Hadrian-to know about it.

Riddle advanced slowly towards the dog, carefully shifting his body this way, then that, and gauging the animal's reaction, though twilight made it difficult. Whatever was so important was by the lake. Tom pulled out his wand and followed the dog's backward movements, straining slightly in the dark to see exactly where he was going. He almost wished it would attack the children, so he could have justification for killing it. It was an annoying little brute.

Concentrating on the Crup and the puzzled children, Tom was almost all the way to the water when he felt the heartbeat, quick and sharp like a deer's. Riddle recognized that pattern of panic, and allowed himself the smallest of smiles. **And I thought being here over break would be dull.**

If he hadn't been looking for her, Riddle might have mistaken the figure hunched over between the trees for a natural formation, perhaps a mossy stone. The faint outline of ahead told the observer that the girl was looking out over the water.

"Why do I always seem to find you here?"

Grey didn't look around, even when the Crup ran up and placed himself at her feet. "It _is_ you. I thought it might be. Maybe it's because you follow me here." Her voice was shaky, and Riddle fought the temptation to probe a little deeper into her mind, see exactly what was upsetting her so. He'd know soon enough.

"I didn't follow you," he said serenely. "I was out for a walk."

"Nice night for it."

Riddle smirked a little, looking at the half-frozen lake. "It is rather, isn't it?"

She didn't reply, and they stood for a minute in silence. Counting the seconds, Tom estimated the perfect time to phrase a concerned question. His hour arrived, and he cleared his throat. "Are you all right?" He was surprised at how easy it was to feign concern, but after all, he _was_ curious.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Riddle stepped closer to her so that he loomed over her crouched form. According to plan, she stood up quickly to gain ground, but this put them very close together. Hermione's chin was centimeters away from his immaculate tie. Her face was bone white, and her eyes were dark and shining. Tom focused on those, and in less than a second he was in the outer regions of Grey's mind.

It was surprisingly bare; she had been doing some housecleaning since he had last visited. **Something made her wary. That is, warier than usual.**

It was nothing Riddle couldn't counter, so he pressed on. There were barriers erected everywhere, but if he maneuvered in through the cracks, he got a worried Malfoy, an opulent carriage, and then the high shrill of some kind of ward.

This was all he could manage before wards of another kind went up. He must have brushed up against something sensitive, and Grey was suspicious, even if she wasn't certain. The cracks in her mind mended quickly. Two firm hands planted on Tom's chest and pushed him away. Nothing would have been easier than for him to resist and remain still, but Hermione was insistent, and it made more sense simply to step back as the prodding fingers demanded.

The Crup was standing a little to the side, looking anxiously from one to the other. Grey stared up at him, stricken, and bit her lower lip viciously. "How often have you done that, Riddle?"

Well, so she had figured it out. **Let her think she's gained something.** Riddle shut his face down and stepped back further. "I don't know what you're talking about, Grey."

She was going to pursue the matter, but a tinny cry of "Tom!" from higher up the hill made her pause. Riddle took advantage of his companion's momentary confusion to gesture towards the noise. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Hermione's lips tightened. "Can it wait?" Her voice was even more clipped than usual.

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Is everything all right?"

"Absolutely," she snapped, and retreated until her robes were brushing the surface of the water. Riddle made a point of watching Hermione's motion, and he saw at once why her Crup was so watchful. Grey was putting absolutely no weight on her left foot.

"Yes," he said coolly, "I can see that everything's just fantastic. Here, let me help."

It all happened quite quickly. One moment, Riddle was extending an arm for Hermione to take, the next he had his hand wrapped around her tiny wrist, trying as gently as he could to stop her wand from jabbing so much into his throat. She had moved in a blur into an attacker's stance, and Tom was only able to anticipate her motion through long familiarity with sudden attacks, first by bigger boys at the orphanage, then by bloodthirsty Slytherins who thought it was safe to attack the boy with no family to speak of. Tom had soon disabused both groups of their false notions.

Tom risked looking away from the wand for long enough to survey Grey's face. What he saw there initially made him determined not to let go of her wrist. She was practically snarling at him. Yet though the rage was worrying, still more pertinent was the fear. Fear that Tom had long sought on her expression and in her mind, but had never managed to find. Frantic fear of him was written all over. Somehow that made her seem more dangerous, rather than less.

Grey wasn't meeting his eyes, and since she had just caught him prying in her head, he didn't blame her. What bothered him more was the war she was waging with herself. He could practically feel the acid green light creeping up her wand, almost hear her panting breath fighting to make the words. They were already echoing in Tom's own skull; he could hear that clear, precise scholar's voice uttering them, and she would mean them. With every fibre of her being, she _wanted_ it. And it would work.

Something was holding her back. Something that went beyond the mysterious redhead and her feelings for him, or even beyond her personal morals. But she was losing grip of her emotions, and Tom needed to urge her on her less harmful path. He looked down her wand, moving his gaze along until he was forcing her to look him in the eyes or turn away. She was too suspicious for the latter, so she stared boldly into his face.

A bolt of understanding shot down Tom's spine, and his eyes widened involuntarily. **That's what she reminds me of-a wounded animal. And furthermore, she associates me with whatever it is that hurt her. A creature at bay turns on its attackers.**

It explained quite a lot, and Riddle wondered why he hadn't seen it before. Heavens only knew why, but he represented something to her. **That,** he mused, **only means she's braver than I thought. Every time she faces off against me, she's fighting something she considers exponentially worse. Interesting.** He smiled at her and didn't miss her horrified shiver. **Very interesting.**

"Miss Grey, please allow me to help you up the hill. As I mentioned a moment ago, I would like to have the pleasure of introducing you to some friends of mine."

"Any friends of yours..." Grey murmured unconvincingly. She took Tom's arm ungraciously and let him help her hobble up the slope. Seeing how she loathed it, Riddle tried to support her without having any unnecessary contact. **No sense provoking her right now.**

* * *

The girl was a strange and sinister china doll until she saw Riddle returning, whereupon her smile stabbed through the gathering black like a sunbeam. The young boy's expression did not change, though Hermione thought he seemed less than fond of the newcomer. In fact, the boy-child reminded her unhappily of the older boy on whose arm she was now obliged to lean. She wished she had taken only a few seconds more to calm herself before she had Apparated to the gates outside of Hogwarts; her haste had made her appear two metres in the air, the reason for her dependence.

She didn't like him like this, so solicitous for her health; he seemed too close to a normal human being. When they argued in the evenings, he displayed his intelligence, arrogance and magical faculties to their best advantage, so that she was reminded at every moment of the creature he would become-was becoming already.

Now, though, the children seemed to look up to him, and possibly because of their presence he was unfailingly polite and respectful. Hermione mentally chanted _Voldie, Voldie, Voldemort_ to remind herself who exactly it was that she was dealing with.

Attempts to probe the children-twins, as it turned out-for information were unsuccessful. They both liked Riddle (the girl was especially voluble on this point), they both found Hogwarts vastly superior to their last place of residence, the Crup was a novelty, and so on. Nothing they said was of any use whatsoever to Hermione.

They went back to the castle directly. Riddle glanced at the clock at the front entrance and remarked, "An hour yet to dinner." He addressed Hermione, "Would you like to go to your room?"

Hermione gave her assent, for she was hoping to apply healing salve to her foot. They proceeded upstairs, but it was a long and painful process. Riddle conscientiously kept watch over the twins, who walked hesitantly just behind him, and maintained his hold on Hermione. As they neared the end of the arduous journey, they came to three trick steps in a row. Riddle made as if to pick Hermione up and lift her over, as he intended to do to the twins. She shook her head firmly. "I can manage it from here, thanks."

Riddle plainly disbelieved her, but he released her. She gritted her teeth, thinking, _I have fought in a war, for Merlin's sake. I should be able to master the stairs at Hogwarts._

Every ounce of weight on her leg was agony, but Hermione persevered. She made it over the trick stairs, though her eyes watered from the pain, and waved Riddle away when he offered her his hand for the remainder of the journey. She would have been damned before she'd let Lord Voldemort carry her, and she regretted letting him assist her as much as he had.

When they finally reached the Heads' common room, Hermione limped into her room and hunted for the salve in her trunk. Her hands brushed against something hard among the cool, soft fabrics of her clothes, and she fished it out. A few seconds after she had applied it, her pain was already decreasing.

* * *

Riddle sat patiently in the common room while the twins settled into their new home. Leila, who was twining herself around his arm, asked, _What is the matter with you and your...friend?_

In reply, Tom tsk-hissed, the serpentine equivalent of a shrug. "She's upset with me," he explained in rapid Parseltongue, "for something someone else did. It's rather fascinating, actually. Her mind really is very odd."

Leila was of the opinion that a girl who blamed random individuals for problems caused by others was not nearly as interesting as Riddle seemed to think. At this point the subject was dropped, for the lady herself, no longer limping, came into the room and seated herself on the couch opposite the conversationalists.

Neither human spoke at first. Riddle sat there imitating a block of marble as best he could, and Hermione was lost in thought. Then at last she said, "What do you see in my mind?"

Riddle blinked and considered the question carefully. He swiftly discarded the possibility of denying it, since he had already pretended ignorance once, and it would just be an insult to Grey's intelligence to carry the charade further. Instead he said quietly, "Not much. When you're emotional, you give out images."

Hermione sucked in her breath and drew her eyebrows together. "Such as?"

Riddle said neutrally, "Often it is a certain young man of the red-haired persuasion."

Visibly relaxing, Grey dismissed that with a wave of her hand. "Just him?"

"Why, is there something else I should be seeing?"

Her face closed off. "Of course not."

Tom, who enjoyed games of this sort tremendously, found to his utter surprise that he was in no mood for the dance anymore that night. He proposed that the topic be switched to the widely condemned use of unicorn blood to extend life, and Hermione acquiesced readily. Riddle was more than a little startled by the passion Hermione apparently felt about the matter.

When it came time to go down to dinner, Tom collected Lavinia and Hadrian, and the four walked down together. As they approached the Great Hall, however, Grey became less ardent and more proper. **It's really disappointing. I'm beginning to think she's even more two-faced than most bluebloods.**

Still, the evening passed pleasantly enough. Riddle's mood was greatly improved by Dumbledore's obvious horror at the quartet. It was quite possibly the highlight of the school-year.

* * *

A/N: Good news! Well, to me, anyway. I think I may actually have this story planned now. At least, I know the ending. That's good, right?


	16. The Plot and the Pendant

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: It's been a while. Forgive me. Inspiration failed to strike. I write things-paragraphs, pages, whole chapters-and sweep them away again in a fit of pique.

* * *

Chapter 16

_In which everyone comes back and Riddle ups the ante._

In the small hours one cold winter morning, Corentin Harad arrived at Hogwarts. Most students had come back on the train the previous night, but there were other routes to the castle and Corentin had his reasons for not wanting to meet the other Slytherins just yet. The sky was bluish grey and dotted with stars. The trees moaned a little as he passed them and the grass wet the hem of his robes. He walked steadily up the hill to the castle and put his hand to the doors of the Great Hall. Before he could knock, the doors swung slowly open to reveal Albus Dumbledore.

"I've been expecting you."

Corentin bowed. "Good morning, Professor. I trust you haven't waited long."

"Not long at all. I trust your journey was uneventful? You can't be too careful with Grindelwald about."

"It was." Corentin wondered whether the Transfigurations professor knew about Hermione Grey. After all, the professor seemed to know everything about everything that went on in the castle. "Thank you for letting me in."

"It was my pleasure. Accept my apologies, but I am no longer of an age where I can stay up all hours of the night and expect to be fresh the next morning. Good night."

"Good night," Corentin said to the last corner of a blue robe as it was whisked away into the shadows. He himself wasn't going straight to bed. The whole journey over, he had been thinking about this business with Grey. Still, he knew that just as he couldn't put it out of mind for more than a few minutes, he couldn't solve the problem until he got to Hogwarts.

Not telling his aunt had been easy. She had been immediately fond of Grey but when she had seen the look on her nephew's face, she had forborne to press the subject. Not telling Eileen and Seraphina was going to be harder. Corentin wasn't fond of Riddle and he made no secret of his hatred for the Malfoys, but the women deserved better than the imposition and pretensions of a Mudblood.

Such a Mudblood... Angry as he was, Corentin could appreciate the skill needed to convince a House full of Purebloods that Grey was the real thing. Without birth certificate or lands or a name any of them knew, she had convinced a group born and trained into suspicion that she wasn't suspect. How had she done it? Looking back, Corentin saw a web of appropriate responses and propriety that hid anything of substance. It had never been more obvious to him that the Pureblood world had no guard against an outsider who knew what she was doing.

The why of it was harder to decipher. Grey hadn't been groveling, she hadn't been trying to set herself up for a nice marriage, and she was smarter than to hope that she could carry on the charade for long after she left Hogwarts. If she had had advancement in mind, she had picked the wrong people to help her. It was an open secret that Riddle's family was impoverished somehow and the Malfoys had no interest in affairs outside their family circle.

So, why?

Corentin slammed his fist against a wall and left it there, leaning into it. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Why?

Although he'd tried, he'd really tried to block it from his mind, he could still see her shocked expression as she left. Her eyes were so brown. He hadn't thought there was a clear, clean brown, but hers were.

Why?

Corentin took a deep breath in and released it slowly. He couldn't imagine Grey doing anything malicious, but he hadn't thought she could be a liar, either.

* * *

In the small hours of the morning, Tom Riddle swirled his joy at finding Leila into his excitement at seeing Lavinia work magic, folded in memories of Hermione, and poured that mixture into a small crystal orb on his bedside table. The hollow sphere had a tiny crack, but that didn't matter. The orb was only there so he had a visualization of where his magic should be going. As he got better, he would get rid of it. After all, his real target was infinitely more difficult to penetrate than any glass bubble. He had been working at this ever since Grey had come back, when the idea had struck him. He still didn't have it right.

When his magic had settled into a greenish mist in the center of the orb, Tom picked up the sphere and pulled the magic back into him. A garish cloud of feeling covered his mind. Grey went a progress through his thoughts, wrapped in love. Saccharine, syrupy puppy love. Then the girl turned to look at him, and her movements became jerky. Lavinia's face emerged from behind hers.

Riddle banished the image with a blast of fire that swept through his mind and destroyed everything on the surface. What could he do to fix this?

The strongest part was Lavinia, but she was also the weakest element. She was surprising and brilliant, and that alone had shocked emotion out of him. The shock was as important as the joy. If he could get it right, if he could convince himself that that emotion had lasted, if he extended it to Grey... The problem was that the girl _wasn't_ Grey. He admired Grey, but he felt no affection for her. He was fond of Lavinia in the same way he was fond of Malfoy and for the same reason, in spite and because of all her naivety, but she was hardly worthy of respect.

Steepling his fingers, Riddle thought. He thought of the red-haired boy, and he thought of Hadrian. He thought of Dumbledore and of Abraxus. When he had thought for a good half an hour, he thought of Corentin, and his thin lips arched into a smile. It was a risk. To be sure, it was a risk, but it would work. Yes, it would work. It was his best work yet. Best of all, it could be broadened to include a second target. Yes, it had to work.

He wished he could test it in the orb, but that would diminish it. This couldn't be contained or it would lose its immediacy and become stale. Nor would he have time to practice it; he would need to do this as soon as he walked into the Great Hall for breakfast, before either of his beloved foster-siblings had a chance to interrupt him.

The next morning, he took a deep breath and entered the Hall with Malfoy at his side. The tables stretched out before him with the Slytherins on the far right. It would have to be the instant he saw Corentin for it to seem real. There was Hermione, and he let the memory begin to leak out. He simply _couldn't_ contain it fully. Whatever would poor Tom do? There was Dumbledore, and Riddle withdrew a little, as though he was conscious of the memory seeping out. Then there at last, sitting stiffly alone at the end of the Slytherin table, was the Harad heir himself.

Tom Riddle let his memory go.

The thought uncurled and swept around like a snake. Uncertain where to go, it stood poised in the air for a second. Then it struck. Riddle's eyes followed the blur of sharp-edged scarlet as it flew in ribbons to its destinations.

It was a beautiful memory, in which the sharp red of dislike faded into a softer rose, for respect. Green for jealousy cut through the center of it all-after all, this was for Corentin-and ran in dizzying loops around a pale blue, for dawning realization. A streak of lightning white completed it with the sudden quick motion of Lavinia's toy falling to the floor. Riddle had built in, lying over all, Grey's face as she slept in the Room of Necessity. She had been white and pale and tense, but he didn't alter the image. He was no ordinary paramour, to be blinded by affection. Grey was not beautiful, and there was no point in pretending otherwise.

This was no chocolate-sweet love or gold-soft. This was a love of iron, a love that left a bloody taste in his mouth and a rusty brown in front of his eyes. It was stubborn and defiant love, love without loving trust or fond illusion. Riddle had taken reality and built a fiction, and Hermione was dazzled. He could see it in her eyes.

Why shouldn't she be, after all? It was as real as fake could be. If he loved, Tom would love like this.

Corentin just stared.

At the high table, Albus Dumbledore let his fork fall from his lips.

Riddle stopped dead in his tracks. He had been conjuring a look of fake horror to appear as he watched his completely unintentional handiwork, but he didn't need it. To have seen that memory without being a target of it, Dumbledore would need to be far more powerful than Riddle had given him credit for and there was no doubt that Dumbledore had seen the memory. Riddle had planned it so that everyone but Harad and Grey would have seen nothing to occasion Dumbledore's visible shock.

Riddle turned around immediately, as though needing to flee, but slowly turned back, as though mindful of the need to protect his image. He felt three pairs of eyes more intent than the rest of the people casually watching his approach. Malfoy was looking at him curiously as well but Riddle purposefully kept his eyes front, the better to see as Grey stood and ran out of the Hall. Harad didn't follow.

None of this was going as he had expected. He wasn't sure how having Dumbledore see the memory would work out, but he had learned how powerful the old trickster really was, and that could only be good. Grey's and Harad's reactions were even more troubling. **I would have thought Grey would have more sense than to betray herself like that. **Had he been wrong about Harad and Grey? But no, the boy's jaw was clenched and his eyes were dull. The memory had bothered him. **So why not follow his lady love?**

Riddle sat down in good spirits. He had only hoped to have his suspicions regarding the pair confirmed and to make Grey think about thinking about trusting him but he had discovered a lot of new information to ponder.

* * *

Hermione made it to the first-floor girls' bathroom before she threw up. When she had nothing left to throw up, she kept heaving.

Somehow the idea that Riddle loved her reminded her that he wasn't just Riddle, but Voldemort, and Hermione wasn't sure what the worst part of it was. Was it the idea of those killing hands on her, those killing eyes watching her? Was it the thought of Ron waiting at home? Or was it the idea that she had become someone Voldemort could love? It wouldn't be normal love, of which she doubted he was capable, but that he could feel a twisted nearness to her... Somehow the image of Bellatrix with her crazed voice and adoring eyes, speaking to her Lord, wouldn't leave Hermione.

She considered the possibility that it was a trick, but discarded it. Riddle had been appalled by the release of the memory, appalled in a much tighter way than he would have been had he been play-acting. Even if he had been playing a subtle part for her benefit, he wouldn't have wanted her to miss the reaction entirely, and she almost had.

Those _hands_. Hermione wanted to jump in the shower, in the lake, anything to feel clean again.

Telling herself that she had only been playing a part, Hermione gulped air. She could feel the beginnings of a sob rising up like bile in her throat. She couldn't choke it back, so she gave in and let her body shake with the force of her self-hatred and confusion. _I wasn't lying_. All right, she wasn't a Pureblood and the Pureblood manners had been an act, but had the coldness?

She couldn't pinpoint exactly when she had first felt that tingle of ice in her chest, putting a wall up between her and the world. It let her pretend to emotions she didn't feel, so she let it progress. It had wrapped tighter and closer around her every day, both comforting and frightening at once. She wasn't sure she could stop it anymore.

Yet common sense said she didn't want Riddle in love with her or even thinking he was, and she had no doubt that the coldness was what had attracted him. Tempting as it was to use it against him, she knew she couldn't wield that power. He might easily realise that she was playing with him and take revenge. Hermione knew from experience that Riddle's revenge was of the permanent variety.

By now, as Hermione had stopped crying and was starting to think about the situation, other sensations hit her. There was disbelief, first and foremost. Close on its heels was exhaustion. Behind them all was longing for home.

Hermione went through her first day of classes in a daze, so much so that McGonagall obviously noticed it. The professor didn't comment, though, and it occurred to Hermione that she was still a Slytherin in the eyes of the world. It was hard to escape the fact with Abraxas and Eileen determined to talk to her. Corentin at least maintained a stony silence. Riddle calmly ignored her and if she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was actually indifferent to her presence.

She knew better. Still, she wasn't surprised when, after every class, he walked off without a glance in her direction. She used the silence to think before she had to pretend interest in Charms or whatever other drivel had a claim on her interest as a star student.

The part of Hermione to which the Sorting Hat had proudly offered "Gryffindor!" wondered if she ought to talk to RIddle. The idea of sitting down with a mug of cocoa and having a heart-to-heart with Riddle was grotesquely funny. In practice it would probably prove fatal.

She needed to be alone. Hermione realised fully that she had built herself a mask good enough to fool evil. She pulled up her self-image in her mind and tried to update it to fit the new data.

She was clever. Yes, Riddle would like that. That could stay.

She was Muggleborn. Well, she had obviously had to sweep that away in her determination to fit in.

She was a Gryffindor. Ditto.

She was honourable. She wasn't any more. There are only so many lies a sense of honour can take. She would have given anything to claim she was honest, that she kept her promises, but that wasn't the case in this world.

She was kind. Here things got more complicated. She would have sworn that Riddle had seen her being gentle to little ones a hundred times-but she thought of the children clinging to his legs. Of course. He'd think of any sweetness she showed as a front.

From this fact Hermione gained strength. Riddle was projecting. He would never do good out of good intentions, so he assumed she wouldn't, either. That was reassuring, inasmuch as it absolved her of some responsibility for Riddle's regard, but she would revisit it later. She had bigger problems.

He was going to assume she would use this against him. He would expect it of her. Could she really afford not to, when self-restraint would make him doubt who she was?

* * *

Riddle, Dolohov, Abraxas, and Eileen were late to dinner. He and Abraxas made a habit of being just a little late, anyway, but this time they had all been genuinely engrossed in conversation. The others had lost track of time and Tom had decided to ignore his internal clock. Thus they came to be walking down the corridor leading up from the dungeons at a time when there were no other students around.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle!"

At the sound of his detested middle name, Tom snapped his head around to see Grey striding towards him. His companions also turned to see the girl rapidly approaching.

"Grey?"

Grey was dressed all in white. Not the white of cotton or linen or silk, but the white of bright sunlight. She almost seemed to glow, traveling straight as a sunbeam through the dismal hall. Her hair was coiled into a high bun and she seemed to be walking with longer steps than her height allowed. Her dress fanned out around her calves like foam and around her arms like wings.

Hermione looked like an angel, but not the kind on Christmas cards. Looking down at her wand in her hand, Riddle half expected it to metamorphose into a flaming sword.

It was not a subtle outfit, but for the life of him Tom couldn't figure out what the message behind it was. He had time to muse that this was presumably the point in itself before Hermione Grey halted in front of him with a casual but somehow ceremonious toss of her shoulders.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," she repeated, nodding to each of his companions in turn, but never moving her eyes from his face.

"Hermione Grey," he replied, wishing he knew her middle name to throw it in her face.

It wasn't until Grey raised her wand to her own neck that Riddle saw she was wearing a small oval pendant. She murmured a spell and the chain fell from her neck. She caught it in her hand, twisted the silver chain between two fingers, and held it up to Tom.

He was unsure of what to do, a feeling he despised. After a second he reached up to take it. Grey's fingers clung to it a second and he thought he might have mistaken her intention, but then she released it. It was heavier than he had expected, and cool. It was made of some kind of wood.

"I want you to have this."

Riddle raised an eyebrow. Jewellery was an important area of study for Slytherins. Besides the social cues its presentation and ostentation gave, jewellery was a convenient method of transmitting curses, both because wearing an item is a simpler condition for triggering a malicious spell than simply owning one, and because gemstones naturally absorbed magic. Yet Grey wouldn't curse him. When she wanted to hurt him, she was in the throes of a maddened fear rather than any sane frame of mind. She would not plot cold-blooded murder against him. He didn't think she wouldn't have liked it, but something held her back. The gift was safe-from a bodily harm perspective, anyway.

"To what do I owe this honour?" Riddle asked courteously. He was keenly aware of the other Slytherins, so he maintained the distantly amused, indulgent smile and tone of voice that they had come to expect from him when he talked to Grey.

To his surprise, Grey didn't return his poor excuse for a smile in kind. She didn't smile at all. "You honour me by taking it."

Riddle lifted it to eye level and surveyed it for a moment. "Whose was it?" he said finally.

Hermione met his eyes, and now she smiled like the smile of a razor's slash on a corpse's throat. "You tell me." Without further ado, she turned on her heel and walked away.

When she rounded a corner, the Slytherins stopped gaping after her and turned to stare at Tom. He stayed quiet for just long enough to convey thoughtfulness and then spoke softly. "I don't think I'll be coming to dinner tonight." He walked slowly away in the direction opposite Grey's departure.

Abraxas would deliberately put the matter out of his mind. The others would assume that they had just witnessed something of a romantic nature, which indeed it was. Riddle hadn't planned for them to have such thoughts but he already hadn't discouraged it, considering all of his conversations with the girl. By Pureblood standards, he was practically courting her already. The only reason they hadn't been congratulating him on it weeks ago was his icy personality. He had never given the idea he would brook insolence, even from allies.

He couldn't go back to his rooms. The twins would be waiting there-they had been so overwhelmed with the scale of Hogwarts breakfast and lunch cooked for the entire student body that they had had no appetite for dinner. Grey might also be lying in ambush. The Room of Necessity it was.

It appeared for him with only an armchair and a blank wall. Riddle shut and locked the door behind him and then settled down in an armchair with the pendant.

Getting a close look at it, the wood was obviously yew. Inlaid in the front were a gleaming white piece of what looked like bone and a section of a blue-grey feather. In between them was a little braid of what seemed to be unicorn hair, one of the three bunches of which had been dyed mottled black. Running his hands over the sides of the oval, Riddle found a catch. It was a locket. Flipping it open he saw inside a jagged edge of water-stained paper, somebody's essay left out in the rain. On it was written in red ink, "Now o'er the one halfworld nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse the curtain'd sleep." Riddle recognized it as a quote, but not one with which he was familiar.

It was a puzzle, and Tom Riddle knew a challenge when he saw one. He wasn't fool enough to interpret the "whose was it?" conundrum literally once Grey had shot him that glance. The locket had been hers. The question was who _she_ was and her parting command implied that she didn't believe he knew. Nor was this a mere game. The unicorn hair alone in this locket was valuable but Riddle suspected the information it hid about Grey could be more so.

She was telling him something. More importantly, she was telling him something she didn't want him to know. He understood how this worked. Grey wouldn't insult him with a worthless prize. She was demanding that he prove he could find it. It might have been the most presumptuous thing Riddle had ever encountered and it was the last thing he had expected when he had sent out that memory.

Hermione Grey though he was in love with her and she had not only not tried to conceal her knowledge of it, she had as good as told him she planned to use it to her advantage. Hermione Grey believed he loved her and, contrary to all expectations, she was willing to play his game. No.

No, whatever else this was, it was no game. Not for her and, if she could really be as useful as she seemed to think she could, not for him either.

Tom Riddle smiled.

* * *

It had been stupid, she knew. On paper it was unjustifiable and it broke every rule of time travel.

Hermione had done it anyway. She had simply decided that it was time for her to remember that she was no Slytherin. She was a Gryffindor in green clothing and while it would be unwise to announce that fact, that didn't mean she had to follow every single pattern they threw her way. She couldn't beat them at their own game. Corentin's wards had ended that possibility once and for all. Whether he chose to spread the news of her questionable lineage at once or wait until a personally advantageous time, the knowledge and the control were no longer hers. Game over. New game.

Besides, her challenge had had the desired effect. Riddle had been truly, genuinely surprised.

She had made the pendant while on the run, though the quote on the paper was a new addition. She had never been quite sure what to write, but thinking about Riddle, the line from _Macbeth_ had simply come into her mind and felt right. Shakespeare, a Muggle author, was risky, but she doubted Tom had ever come across him in the orphanage, and she knew that Dumbledore, at least, had been familiar with the man's works, so he was not entirely foreign to the wizarding community. She had originally made it so she could have a reminder of what she was fighting. Ironic that she should hand it off voluntarily to the very man she had created it to condemn.

She had thought the last term was tricky; this would be nearly impossible, but Hermione intended to manage. Let it begin.


End file.
